


Fresh Feeling

by Justkeeptrekkin



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Eventual Smut, Fluff and Humor, House sulks for the first half, M/M, Team Bonding, Unresolved Sexual Tension, honestly this is so ridiculous, they build rafts, they shoot each other with paintballs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:46:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23989099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Justkeeptrekkin/pseuds/Justkeeptrekkin
Summary: House is tricked into going on a team-building trip with his colleagues. He does far more bonding with Wilson than anyone else.
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson
Comments: 102
Kudos: 525





	1. Trust Exercise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the dumbest shit I've ever written but it should also be fun for you to read, I hope!!!!!
> 
> This fic is named after the song Fresh Feeling by the Eels. Super romantic and cute. Great tune, highly recommend.
> 
> This fic is set in s4, when House has finally decided who his team are going to be.

'Mr Leibowitz, please, take a seat.’

Wilson extends a hand as Mr Leibowitz does exactly that, in the chair opposite Wilson’s desk. This is the second consultation of the day, and this one, thankfully, will be far more positive. The old man eases himself down in the chair, one hand bracing the arm and a wincing smile on his face. Wilson props his elbows on his desk and clasps his hands together. 

‘How are you feeling today, Mr Leibowitz?’

‘Oh, you know, Doc. I’m sleeping better now, at least,’ he adds with a little laugh, as if he’s trying to make _Wilson_ feel better about the fact that he has cancer. He holds his hat in his lap, a look in his eye that shows that he’s expecting bad news. 

The good days outweigh the bad ones, as an oncologist. It’s days like this that make the air fill his lungs again, after feeling deflated by the futility of it all. ‘That’s great to hear.’ He looks down at the folder in front of him, opens it to reveal the scans. ‘Well, we have your results back, and—’

The door opens. House hangs in the threshold, rather than poking his head in as he often does. He stands there and stares with an unhappy frown, lingering like he’s waiting for Wilson to get off the PlayStation and let him have a go. 

‘Doctor House,’ he says, because he feels the need to let Mr Leibowitz know that this is an actual, medical professional who has just burst in mid-consultation. ‘As you can see, I’m busy.’

House blinks a pair of angry-blue eyes at Wilson, and then casts them towards Mr Leibowitz. 

‘I have cancer,’ Mr Leibowitz announces with childish informativity. 

‘Good for you.’ House looks back at Wilson. ‘I need to talk to you.’

Wilson lowers his head and peers up at House warningly. ‘Not _now_.’

‘Cuddy is sending me to a conference in upstate New York.’

‘Sounds charming. We’ll discuss this later.’

House looks at Wilson, then Mr Leibowitz, then at Wilson again, and sighs, rolling his eyes. Then, quite reasonably, although put-upon, ‘I will give you sixty seconds to make your prognosis.’ 

The door closes. 

There’s a beat of silence. The old man looks at him with the innocence of a person who has never had to deal with Gregory House before and does not know what he just witnessed. ‘Is everything alright?’

‘Yes. He’s…’ Wilson shakes his head uselessly. There are no words to describe his best friend. ‘I apologise for how confusing this might be, but just as a head’s up, I’m going to go block my door with the sofa.’

Wilson waits for Mr Leibowitz to nod uncertainly before going to the sofa and dragging it towards the door. It creaks and groans horribly, and his shoes scuff against the carpet. Mr Leibowitz turns in his chair and watches with bewilderment as he huffs and puffs, pulling a sofa across the room – he gives it a shove for good measure, making sure it’s providing a decent enough barrier that House can’t even open it up a crack. With a sigh, he rolls his sleeves up and views his work. 

Mr Leibowitz offers a nod of baffled appreciation. 

‘That should do it—'

The door rattles and thuds against the back of the sofa. There’s a pause. 

Wilson places his hands on his hips. “I am not giving my patients a sixty-second prognosis because you’re too much of a child to wait.”

“What did I do to deserve this?” House wails on the other side of the door, imitating a character from one of his medical dramas. “Don’t you love me anymore, Jimmy?”

“Go away.”

Then, blissful silence. Wilson smiles to himself, proud of his backbone for finally making an appearance after over a decade of friendship. He retreats, hands held in front of him as if prepared for the door to explode open, and then he sits behind his desk again and cross his legs. 

Mr Leibowitz looks at him. ‘If you need to go talk to him…’

‘No,’ Wilson interrupts, a little too harshly. ‘That’s not going to happen. I’m sorry for the interruption. Um… where… ah, as I was saying—we got your results back, Mr Leibowitz, and I’m delighted to be able to tell you that your pancreatic cancer has gone into remission.’

His patient visibly relaxes into the chair. ‘Oh, my. Norma really will be happy. She’s been feeding me chicken soup for weeks, and the both of us have gotten so tired of it.’

He gives a small laugh, a quiet sound at the back of his throat. ‘We’d like to keep seeing you, Mr Leibowitz, just for an occasional check-up. Remission is excellent news, but it doesn’t always mean that—’ 

There’s a slow banging on the door. The sound of a fist, and then the obvious thwack of a cane being used like a battle ram. The sofa shifts, carpet crunching, and a small crack appears in the door, with House’s left eye peering through. 

‘Heeerrrrrreeee’s Johnny!’

‘OK,’ is Wilson’s first response. And because he’s always been an enabler, finding it easier to give House what he wants rather than dealing with the consequences, he looks at Mr Leibowitz and says, ‘I’m so sorry. I’ll be back very shortly.’

He pulls the sofa away. The door opens wider, to reveal House peering menacingly around the doorframe, eyes on Wilson. 

‘Oh, my, fancy seeing you here,’ Wilson says dully. 

House gestures for Wilson to step out, so he does, and closes the door behind him. 

Hands on hips. ‘ _What_?’ he demands. 

‘Cuddy is sending me on a conference upstate New York.’

Ah. So that’s what she’s calling it, then. Of course, Wilson had heard all about this ‘conference’ yesterday afternoon, learning who would be attending said ‘conference’. He _had_ wondered how the hell Cuddy was planning to send House on a corporate team-building trip without sedating him and stuffing him into the boot of Wilson’s car. 

‘I think my words before were, ‘sounds charming’. It does. My cousin has a place up there.’

‘It’s not a conference,’ House replies, not meeting Wilson’s eye. 

‘It’s not?’ Wilson says innocently. He rolls on the balls of his feet. ‘You think she’s… finally snapped? Decided to hide you away in a log cabin in shame, like the mad lady in the attic?’

‘What medical conference conference have you ever heard of being in _upstate_ New York?’

Wilson shrugs. ‘Maybe they didn’t want to put people in a shitty, overcrowded hotel for three days.’

House shakes his head minutely, looks into the distance with comically narrowed eyes, once again adopting the persona of a medical drama character. ‘I don’t like this Wilson… I don’t like it at all.’

‘Alright, Horatio Cane,’ Wilson sighs, backing towards the door. ‘I’m gonna go back to telling my patient that he isn’t imminently dying, and then we can scheme together over lunch.’

House similarly makes his leave. Partway down the corridor he turns and says over his shoulder, ‘Mom said I could bring a friend.’

That had always been the plan. Wilson would drive him and then would hide his car keys so House couldn’t spontaneously leave and abandon them in the middle of a forest. It makes him a little uneasy, something in between excited and dread filled. 

‘Thanks. You just—get your mom to tell my mom. I’ll need permission from mine before I can go.’

That seems like a good joke to end the conversation with. He closes the door, that usual fizzy feeling in his chest that he gets when he’s bantering with House. It makes him smile inwardly. He isn’t entirely conscious of any of these feelings until he sees Mr Leibowitz, sitting patiently and watching him. It makes him halt in shock, having almost forgotten his patient was there at all. 

‘So,’ the old man says. ‘I’m not dying?’

It’s a miracle that nobody has told House anything. None of the new or old fellows have let slip, each one of them turning up for work that morning as if everything were totally normal, nothing to be suspicious of here, boss. Foreman, Taub and Thirteen are good liars, so that was never the problem. Kutner, though—Wilson really thought he’d give in and tell House the whole-truth-and-nothing-but-the-truth, wrapped up in a bow. However, when Wilson came to grab him from their conference room, everything seemed in order. The board of shame showed notes from the last case, not yet rubbed away. Kutner had drawn a little Star Trek starship in the corner that didn’t seem to be going anywhere. And House had said goodbye to them, zipping up his bag and parting with: _don’t worry, kids, I’ll be back before you can say encephalomyelitis._

They make it out of the hospital building without a hitch. Wilson casts a furtive glance through the windowed doors of Cuddy’s office, but she doesn’t look up from her desk. They get through the parking lot, House complaining that this somehow feels like a trap. 

Wilson throws House the car keys.

House catches them. Pauses by the nose of Wilson’s car, glaring at him in suspicion with his hand still in the air, post-catch. ‘You’re letting me drive?’

Wilson throws his arms in a shrug. ‘If it shows you that I’m not kidnapping you. Then sure.’

House stares, unmoving. There’s the edge of a smile on his face, as he begins to calculate all of Wilson’s possible motives. 

‘Listen, as far as I’m aware, this is a virology conference. If this is a trap, then I’m going to be suffering with you.’

Which isn’t distinctly untrue. This weekend is going to be awful, and he’s still not entirely sure why he signed up to babysit House through the nightmare that’s about to ensue. 

Regardless of this, House appears temporarily satisfied—this conversation will be continue in the car, Wilson knows— and so he draws a slow breath and tears his eyes away, taking the driver’s seat. They both slide into the car, doors slamming in sync. And Wilson supposes he could feel guilty for tricking his friend right about now, but they’re both well beyond that. If this were a group-bonding trust exercise, Wilson would have failed. 

House turns on the ignition and backs out whilst he’s fiddling with the radio. There are CDs in his glove compartment, but they can spend hours debating over which one to play later. This is almost a four-hour journey. Plenty of time to destroy their friendship over which David Bowie record to put on. 

Cuddy had given House the name of a hotel in a town called Saratoga Springs. Wilson wonders how he’s supposed to convince House to stop before then, so they can swap and have Wilson drive them to their real, super-secret destination. And it begins to dawn on him then, as they’re careering down route 206 through Montgomery, that he somehow has to pull this off. Pull the wool over House’s eyes long enough to get him to a corporate team-building trip and _keep_ him there. Where he’ll have to bond. With several human beings. What the hell is he thinking? And what the hell is Cuddy thinking?

No—he knows and understands what Cuddy is thinking. House has put the new fellows through psychological torture by firing and re-hiring them on and off for the past few weeks. Now, they’re officially working for the world-renowned Doctor House, but are triggered into episodes of panic and paranoia every time they breath in their boss’s direction. Meanwhile, Foreman, Chase, and Cameron have watched at the side-lines, offering what advice they can without influencing House’s ultimate decision on who to hire. A colleague-bonding trip is actually a pretty smart way of letting everyone get to know each other, learn from each other, and relax into their new team a little. Learn some trust. Almost like a reward for passing House’s inhumane tests. 

The problem with this whole plan, however, is that House is going to be there, too. Wilson doesn’t think House has bonded with anyone or anything since his umbilical cord was cut at birth. 

‘How are the new team getting along?’ Wilson asks casually after a surprisingly long conversation about Megan Fox’s acting career, as he watches the rows of trees blur into one stripe of green through his window. 

The radio commentator chatters distantly in the background and House turns his head slightly to acknowledge his question. He’s wearing his sunglasses, a frown furrowed above them in the bright light. ‘They’re fine. Kutner is unpredictable. Taub’s insufferable. Foreman’s Foreman. And Thirteen still has Huntington’s. Also she’s bi.’

Wilson blinks, stares through the windscreen. ‘Oh- w- did she…? Tell you that?’

House looks at him again, more sardonic this time. ‘Yes. She stayed over at mine and we shared coming-out stories over Cosmos.’

 _Shared_ coming-out stories? ‘What gave it away?’

Another look. ‘Wilson. She wears suspenders and loose jeans.’

‘So she hasn’t actually told you that she’s bisexual. You’re just assuming.’

House doesn’t respond, which leaves an uncomfortable silence where there would usually be bickering. Wilson looks through the window feeling uncertain and a little off-kilter. 

Naturally, House has always been observant. It’s one of his Sherlock Holmes traits. Now, however, he wonders if House ever figured out that Wilson’s not exactly one-hundred-percent straight, either – whether the constant gay jokes are pointed, or oblivious. Before his second wife, Julie, he’d had a few… flings with men. Nothing more. He’s always dismissed those events as mere experimentations. Sometimes, though, he feels the pull of a thought, a feeling deep inside his chest (that has nothing to do with House, no, no way) and he’ll stop short, push it away for a very distant future consideration. 

And then it occurs to him, smacking him in the face like a bookshelf tumbling down on top of him. House didn’t deflect. He didn’t do his usual thing of saying something totally transparent, so thinly sarcastic that it’s clearly the truth. Instead, House went silent. House doesn’t go silent unless he’s on the verge of actually talking about something.

Wilson stares, and House doesn’t look back. 

OK. Perhaps something to break the silence. The radio is mundane and irritating, but the CDs in his glove compartment aren’t. Leaning forward, Wilson pops it open and discovers that some of the CDs he’d burned for journeys to work are still there, even though he thought he’d cleared them all out last month. House peers over at him as he rifles through the piles. 

Wilson feels that he understands House well after around fifteen years of knowing each other. They’ve been through plenty; too much. Sometimes he regrets ever being bailed out of that jail in New Orleans, helped by a fresh-faced stranger called Gregory House. But then he looks at the years that have aged his friend’s face- years that they’ve shared- and he doesn’t regret a second. He thinks he knows a lot about House, but he knows for a fact that he doesn’t know everything. Those moments of silence, of House holding his face in his hands to avoid eye-contact, of almost telling him something important and then dropping a joke instead. No. Wilson understands his best friend better than anyone, which means he also sees that there are lots of things about House that he’ll never know for certain. 

‘Why aren’t you needling me?’

Wilson shifts in his seat, looks away from the glove compartment. ‘Huh?’

‘Why aren’t you guilt tripping me into telling you my life-story?’

It doesn’t take as long to translate House’s language as it used to, but it does require some concentration. And then it hits him again – another pile of books dropping from nowhere – and now his head is swimming a little. Because House is defensive. Proving Wilson’s germinating theory: Thirteen isn’t straight, House isn’t, either. ‘Do you… _want_ to talk about it?’

A brief hesitation. ‘It creeps me out when I don’t see your manipulative paws all over my personal life.’ Another pause. Then, nodding to the case in Wilson’s hand, ‘What’s that?’

‘A CD, captain. A strange, disc-like contraption that earth people use to play music.’

His eyes flit between the road and the CD in question, sitting quite innocently in its case but receiving some intense looks of criticism, nonetheless. ‘I am banning any kind of musical theatre from this road-trip.’

‘I-?’ He stalls. It is a closely kept secret between the two of them that Wilson has a startlingly deep knowledge of the soundtrack from The Chorus Line. ‘I do listen to other kinds of music.’

‘Oh yeah? _Prove_ it, then, nerd,’ House retorts in his best impression of a first grader. 

Wilson pops open the case, recovering enough from this small interaction to slide the CD in. The first song that comes on is Creedence Clearwater Revival, which he knows House will appreciate. Then, because he thinks he’s found his feet again: ‘If you— _want_ to talk about it, I—’

\-- _actually wouldn’t mind talking through the topic of sexuality myself,_ he’s about to say. But House gets there first. 

‘Don’t wanna talk about it.’

His lips are pursed and his brows are raised, a look that’s both good-natured and stubborn. Wilson sighs. 

‘You brought it up. And you asked me why I wasn’t pursuing it… so here I am, pursuing it.’

The sound of guitar solos fills the car. Then, ‘Don’t wanna talk about it.’

And that settles it. The white lines stretch ahead and blur into one. The sky is blue. It’s a nice day, and it’s unseasonably warm outside. It almost makes him want to roll down a window. 

He’s probably going to regret broaching this topic, but: ‘So, if you don’t think this is a conference trip, then… what are your theories?’

‘You’re only asking me that because you feel guilty.’ And then he’s smiling, a smug smile, his _I’ve worked it out_ smile. ‘You’re asking me because you feel bad for making _me_ feel bad about not talking about my feelings, and now you’re asking me to divulge my theories so you can see if I’ve figured out where we’re really going. Because you know where we’re going. Don’t you?’

God, he’s a bastard. ‘Define “know”.’

House scoffs, head tilted back in vindication. ‘I knew it. You’re a traitor to your kind. How did Cuddy lure you to the dark side this time?’

‘She didn’t need to blackmail me, I actually agree with many of the things she suggests. I just… don’t always have the backbone to not take your side. So, where do you think we’re going? I’m intrigued to hear your thoughts.’

The song changes and House drums his fingers against the wheel. ‘Sensitivity training.’

‘No.’

‘A work bonding trip.’

‘No, thank god,’ he laughs. Oh, this is going to be awful. 

House looks at him, and even through the sunglasses, Wilson knows he’s being measured and weighed. 

He sighs. ‘Fine. We’re going on a retreat.’

A beat. Then, ‘Oh, Jimmy. We finally get to have that massage together.’

‘Cuddy figured you wouldn’t go alone, and she _also_ figured that your new fellows need some time to work with each other without their evil overlord around. You know, so they can actually learn to trust each other, without being sent running around in circles.’

House pouts. ‘But it’s fun watching them run around in circles. Aren’t they happy? Should I get them a bigger cage?’

‘They need to settle in.’

Wilson wonders if House will take the bait. As casually as possible, he looks out the window and drums his hands against his thighs to the music. House stares at him. 

‘Eyes on the road, House,’ he says. 

He does as he’s told. Ever since that guy came in with Mirror Syndrome and mimicked Wilson, he’s been feeling quietly smug about being deemed the person of authority in their relationship. It’s all the more satisfying because House doesn’t even seem to realise little moments like this – opening the door for Wilson, taking his plate for him. Small things that make Wilson wonder what it would be like if – 

‘You’re lying,’ House says.

Wilson sighs. 

‘You do realise that as soon as we get there and I figure out what we’re actually doing, I’ll steal your keys and abandon you in Saratoga Springs.’

‘Oh, yes, I’m prepared,’ Wilson replies with mild threat.

It makes House smile.

For a while, they talk about nothing, random things that pop into their minds. Their conversation winds as friends’ conversations do, the subject changing until it’s two hours later and they can’t figure out how they got from the topic of log cabins to last year’s winner of American Idol. It’s sunny and Wilson feels himself relax, feels House relax and laugh in the way he’s only ever seen him laugh with him. Did Stacy ever make him laugh?

The landscape changes a little, growing more built up as they bypass New York and then head further upstate, where it gets greener and the forests denser. And there’s something sort of nice about House driving, about this entire road trip, like they’re escaping together. It makes him almost forget that they’re about to reconvene with their Plainsboro colleagues in cabin, instead of going on holiday together – sun in House’s hair and the edge of his sunglasses, the remnants of a smile, lingering after some biting joke Wilson made at his expense. He rolls up the sleeves of his sweater and pulls his tie out from under it, where it had already been loosened. House turns – the instinct to look in the direction of movement, more than anything else, but it’s nice when House looks. He doesn’t like to think about why it’s nice. 

‘You need to turn right here,’ Wilson says, as he’s changing the CD. 

‘Saratoga Springs is straight ahead.’

He winces. ‘We’re… not going to Saratoga Springs. At least, not to the town itself.’

House slows to a stop and indicates. Since there’s no traffic here, he puts on the hand break and looks at Wilson. ‘I’m not angry, just disappointed.’

‘The map book says there’s a diner down here, just on the left. We’ll go inside, I’ll get you a drink, I’ll drive us the rest of the way.’

House shakes his head at him, gives the weary sigh of a parent. ‘I will make you pay for this.’

All things considered, House seems quite calm about this whole situation. Of course, if he knew they were going to a colleague team-building trip… ‘I know,’ Wilson says. ‘You can make me pay later. I anticipate it will be cruel and you’ll make me wish I’d never been born. For now, just make a right turn.’

He does so, with some reluctance. Wilson is astonished that they’ve got this far without House doing a U-turn. And yet they drive a little further, deeper into the forest until Wilson spots the diner on the left. Unfortunately for House, they are actually a lot closer to their destination than he might realise. This diner is also a bar, a twenty-five minute walk along a footpath to the cabin they’re renting. If he remembers correctly from the images on the website Cuddy showed him, there’ll be a sign further along the road for ‘Broadleaf Park’, where there are several other cabins like theirs, probably occupied with similarly reluctant office workers or lawyers or bankers. 

So far, no sign is visible, so House pulls over unawares and in silence, an expression that shows he’s deep in puzzle-solving mode. The gravel crackles underneath the car wheels and he stops, pulling off his sunglasses and swinging out of the car. Wilson takes a deep, steadying breath, and follows. 

‘Ah, smell that sweet, fresh air,’ he announces with some theatre. 

House no longer looks relaxed, or happy. He’s casting his eyes about the woodland and the country diner behind him, head tilted downward and gaze looking up. That animal look of distrust that he has when he doesn’t understand something. It almost makes Wilson feel bad, but he’s also sort of enjoying having the upper hand. 

‘Come on. I’ll get you a beer.’

‘Where are we,’ House mumbles.

‘About three miles out of Saratoga Springs.’

It’s the truth, and House can tell, so they step inside the diner in strained silence. They take a booth; Wilson buys House a beer, and a coke for himself; they share some fries, or at least, he pretended he’d bought them for himself and allowed House to steal some, because that’s the only way they can share food; House falls into a deeper stupor of puzzle-solving and resentment; Wilson hums along badly to the ‘60s boombox in the corner. 

After about twenty, tense minutes, Wilson takes the driver’s seat and leads them the rest of the way. And House has begun sighing and rolling his eyes and making cheap snipes at him, getting bitchier and bitchier like a cat who knows they’re getting closer to the vets. And they drive past the Broadleaf Park sign, House shooting him an accusatory look, and Wilson whistling cheerfully to himself, enjoying this a little too much. And then it reaches the point where he has to concentrate, because he needs to figure out which cabin is theirs. But he sees the sign, a tiny number 10 on a wooden plank hidden behind some artfully draped foliage, and he turns his car, trying not to get it too muddy and probably failing. No cars parked here yet. Which means the others haven’t arrived, which can only be a good thing. No need to spook House any more than he already has. 

Wilson turns off the engine. He steps out. And then, unlike before, he actually does feel overwhelmed by the fresh air. 

And that view. 

They’re right by the lake. Huge and blue-grey under a spring sky, glittering a little. The sort of lake that he was terrified of as a kid, because it reminds him of _Friday the 13th._ The cabin is a decent size, with a balcony and porch, the trees above moving in the breeze like a stop-motion painting of all the greens in the colour-spectrum. And there’s the sound of a bird above.

‘That sounds like an eagle,’ he says, quite affably.

‘Don’t act like you know anything about nature,’ House snorts. The car door slams and he leans on his cane, sighs. ‘This is either a retreat, or a work team-building trip. You had better hope it’s the first.’ 

Oh, God. He is so dead. ‘Let’s just go inside,’ Wilson says. 

They grab their bags from the boot. They head up to the front door, going up the steps – each step feeling just a little closer to certain death, in Wilson’s case – and he tries the door, expecting it to be locked. 

It’s not.

The door opens. The lights are on. And there are voices. 

‘Oh God,’ he finally says out-loud. 

House freezes in the doorway. He glares at Wilson, drops his bag in the hallway. And then he marches into the very nice, beautifully furnished living room to find all his old and new fellows, drinking bottles of Heineken.

‘Lo and behold,’ announces Taub with a wry smile from an armchair. 

Foreman leans an arm against the bookcase, brows raised in interest, waiting for the shit to hit the fan. Chase sits on the arm of the sofa that Cameron and Thirteen are sharing, and Kutner is kneeling by the cooler, holding two beers in his hands. 

He looks up at House, then Wilson, then House again, and extends a Heineken. ‘Beer?’ he asks innocently. 

House turns on Wilson. ‘You asshole.’

Foreman shakes his head and hides his laugh behind his beer bottle. In fact, all of them seem to be in good spirits. Wilson throws his arms in the air in irritation. 

‘You guys weren’t meant to arrive yet! We were meant to get a head start!’

‘We saw your car parked at the diner, I think we only just passed you,’ Thirteen explains, with a large dose of humour to her voice. 

‘Well. This is going to be…’ Chase starts and doesn’t finish.

‘If it’s any consolation,’ Taub adds, ‘none of us want to be here, either.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ Kutner responds. 

They all look at Wilson. House continues to glare. Wilson deflates. 

‘A _team-bonding_ trip,’ House argues, as if it were all his idea. Which it certainly fucking was not. ‘You _asshole_.’

‘Blame Cuddy! Not me! I don’t even need to be here, I’m just here for moral support –‘

‘Fuck you.’

House stalks towards him. And for a second, Wilson has a horrible feeling that he’s about punch him – he’s got a furious purpose in his eyes, jaw clenched, and he’s dropped his cane on the floor. But then he realises that he’s trying to get his keys, and Wilson ducks out of the way just in time. 

‘No-’

‘You expect me- ’ House wraps his arms around Wilson’s waist, trying to reach his hands, ‘to make s’mores-’ he wriggles free, extending his arm above his head, but House is taller, ‘and sing Kumbaya with these morons-’ 

Everyone else is laughing. It’s fair enough, it’s a ridiculous sight, two grown men scrabbling over car keys. House grabs his wrist, and Wilson wrestles free by giving his other arm a Chinese burn and sprinting out of the cabin. He hears House growl with infuriation, then the footsteps of him following. He tries to shut the front door in House’s face, but narrowly misses the opportunity as he stops it with his cane. 

This really does feel like a horror movie. 

He’d meant to have time to hide his car key, somewhere that House would never find. The surprise is ruined, so he hasn’t had the opportunity. Now, he hops down the cabin steps and fiddles with the keyring, trying to wrangle the car key off the chain – 

‘Give me the keys.’

‘No!’ he retorts, feeling like a five-year-old. 

‘I can’t believe you’ve brought me to a work bonding trip-’

House is prowling towards him, eyes wide and angry and a palm turned upwards for Wilson to give him the keys. Wilson backs away slowly, finding that this is strangely sort of fun. Just another prank. Satisfying and exhilarating, all of House’s attention on him. ‘Again. Not my idea. I came with you to ease the pain.’

That makes him scoff. ‘Oh, yeah, thank you so much – you know what? I actually feel like I can get through the weekend now I know _you’re_ here, suffering with me.’

Well, that had sort of been the plan. Wilson flounders. House stalks closer. 

Is he going to punch him?

‘You’re not leaving.’

‘Yeah. I am.’

‘No, you’re not. This’ll be good for you-’

‘I _will_ punch you in the face,’ he says, although the threat seems suddenly quite thin. 

House approaches, Wilson swallows, tries not to lean away, stands his ground. ‘You’re staying.’

‘Oh yeah?’ House says, leaning forward until their noses are less than a foot away, his eyes challenging and completely captivating as if they have the power to freeze Wilson to the spot. ‘Make me.’

There’s just a second. Maybe a little longer. There’s a pause where House’s gaze flits down at the car key in his hand, and he knows he only has a second to make his next move before House wins this fight – because he’s managed to completely incapacitate Wilson, somehow, standing so close and staring and – he doesn’t know what to do, so he—

Throws the key into the lake. 

They both watch it soar through the sky in a perfect arc, sun glinting off the metal and then making a neat _plop_ as it hits the water. 

Time lies suspended, and they look at each other, the wind catching House’s hair. He’s looking at him, totally astonished. Like that time he cut his cane in half. And Wilson knows then, when he looks at his parted lips and furrowed brow, that he’s done for. In so many more ways than he’d anticipated. 

_Ah, shit. I’m in love with him._

‘You just threw the keys. Into the _lake_ ,’ House accuses. 

‘Apparently I did,’ Wilson agrees. He gestures to the water. ‘Would you like to go retrieve them?’

‘I’ll get Foreman to hot-wire it.’

‘I’m sure he’d be more than willing to help, he’s always loved enabling you.’

‘There’s gotta be Wi-Fi here. I’ll Google it.’

‘Good luck with that.’

House doesn’t blink. He hasn’t blinked once, or moved. They’re so close, and Wilson suddenly feels like he’s suffocating. Maybe that’s why he’s so light-headed. Maybe it’s the fresh air. 

And then, House begins to back away. He points at Wilson and calls over his shoulder, ‘I am going to punish you in ways you can’t even imagine.’

Wilson stands in the muddy carpark, breeze messing with his hair and the sound of the lake lapping against the grassy bank. His hands fall loosely at his sides, and he wonders what’s so wrong with him that he’s actually looking forward to whatever House has in store. 

The evening is coming to a pink and orange end, the sky casting a neon light through the windows of the cabin. The living room is warm from the log fire, the coffee table has spilled splodges of guacamole and empty beer bottles. Wilson is sitting on the rug, eying the impressive bookshelves. This place is sort of romantic – the sort of place you see in clothing catalogues advertising cashmere socks and jumpers, lovers drinking cocoa in front of a fireplace. Or, it would be romantic if he weren’t sitting here with all of House’s fellows. Taub and Foreman look like they’re pretending they don’t want to be there, whilst everyone else has given in to the inevitable and slipped happily into drunkenness. Almost everyone else, at least. 

‘What was he like?’

Wilson has a guac-loaded chip hovering in front of his mouth when Thirteen asks this. Cameron is leaning forward in her seat, spinning her beer bottle until the bubbles rise. Chase tilts his head back with a small, expectant smile. They are all looking at him. 

He eats the chip, says mid-chew, ‘House?’

‘No, Mickey Mouse,’ Foreman replies. 

Kutner stares into the distance, suddenly serious. ‘I can’t imagine him as an intern. Or a resident. Or… young. In my head, he was just born a forty-something-year-old grump.’

They all continue to stare, and it seems there’s no way out of it. Wilson shrugs, looking through the window. He can see House, trying to use a radio antenna to unlock Wilson’s car. Idiot. It makes some part of him laugh, though he doesn’t laugh out loud. 

‘I didn’t know him when he was an intern,’ Wilson starts, looking back at the bookshelf. He takes a swig of his beer, just to draw out the tension. They’re all completely enraptured, desperate for some information on their enigmatic boss. It makes him feel powerful. ‘We met at a conference in New Orleans. I was fresh out of med school… I _was_ an intern. He was a couple of years ahead, so he was a resident at that point. Told me about Plainsboro…’ 

Everyone watches. Wilson shrugs again. 

‘The rest is history.’

Cameron frowns. ‘That doesn’t tell us anything.’

Chase looks at her. _Why do you care so much?_

‘He was… dazzlingly talented,’ Wilson admits with a small laugh. ‘He was that asshole kid in his twenties who acted like he knew better than the rest of them, and actually did. I finished my internship at New York Mercy and moved to Plainsboro for a fresh start after the divorce. He got me a residency with him in infectious disease, then I did a round in oncology because I hated following him around and playing catch-up. But… yeah. He did all the shitty groundwork that everyone does when they start out, too. As hard as that is to imagine.’

Taub gasps mockingly. ‘He’s human!’

‘He used to work in a bookshop,’ Wilson suddenly remembers, remarking this out loud. ‘Before I knew him.’

‘What? Really?’ Kutner demands. 

‘House in customer service…’ Foreman shakes his head.

‘I’m imagining him throwing copies of _War and Peace_ at customers from behind the till,’ Thirteen says. 

‘That’s probably fairly accurate,’ Wilson assents. 

They don’t ask him any more questions. Wilson wouldn’t have answered any more. They don’t need to know anything about House, and it’s not his place to tell them anything more than he should. He’s not even sure what he’d tell them. That he was utterly charismatic, everyone loving him despite also hating him? That he’d always been an asshole, just not as much as now? That his sarcasm used to be a lot more endearing, before he started taking Vicodin to deal with a crippling chronic pain? That Wilson was totally swept away by him from day one?

Holy shit, how he’s spent these fifteen years not even realising is unbelievable. It’s so obvious, Wilson considers, as he takes a swig and lets the others’ conversation get drowned out by his thoughts. It’s _so_ obvious that he’s in love with him. And nothing, _nothing_ is ever obvious for Wilson. He tortures himself over minor decisions like what sofa he should get from the furniture store, what he should have for dinner, whether he made the right medical prognosis. 

And yet, with House, everything has always felt a lot simpler. Painfully, brazenly truthful. The truth of it bubbles up and he knows, simply knows, now, that he’s been infatuated since that first day. 

Wilson stands up. He feels the four beers go to his head the moment he’s upright. ‘Excuse me,’ he announces, and leaves the rest of them to talk about funny medical stories. 

The air is cooler. Cold, even, and Wilson wraps the cardigan around him, unrolling his sleeves and rubbing his arms. House is sitting on the gravelled ground by the car, playing with the radio antenna like he’s an orchestra conductor. He looks up at Wilson, then away again, staring out at the lake with a great deal of petulance. 

Wilson comes to a stop and folds his arm to keep his hands warm. ‘Any luck?’ 

‘No.’ He drops the antenna. ‘Your car won’t let me break into it.’

‘You didn’t think to smash the window?’ he asks, having no idea why he’s suggesting such a thing. ‘I didn’t think you’d be above that.’

‘You take me for some petty thief,’ House jokes.

Wilson pauses for comic effect. ‘Yes.’

For a second, House doesn’t respond, one leg stretched out in front of him and the other bent, an arm resting on his knee. ‘It’s going to be a cold night. I didn’t want to drive home with a broken window.’

‘That’s very considerate of you.’

They appear to have reached an impasse. The shadows of birds swoop above the surface of the lake. Perhaps they’re bats. It’s too early for cicadas, and too cold, but the air is fresh and clean with spring. Wilson extends a hand towards House. He takes it, and he drags his friend to his feet. They make their way inside slowly, elbows bumping. 

‘So. You’re one of her flying monkeys, now.’

Wilson sighs. ‘I’m sorry I dragged you out here against your will and followed Cuddy’s bidding.’ He looks at House to see his response, but he finds his gaze fixed on the ground in front of them as they walk. ‘I don’t exactly want to be here either.’

‘You don’t have to be.’

He shrugs. ‘If it’s what makes you stay…’

‘Why do you want me to stay?’

They both stop, the pink sky going purple-blue, that lavender dusk colour. House stares at him, examines him, and Wilson realises that he has no idea how to answer that question. 

Perhaps he thought that it would be nice for House to have a small break from it all. First it was Vogler, then it was Tritter, then his fellows quit – there hasn’t been a single break, and maybe he thought it would be good for him to form some semblance of friendship with these new colleagues. Maybe it was more selfish than that. Maybe he just wanted an excuse to mess around with his friend, play pranks on each other and act like kids. Maybe he actually _did_ want to come. 

After all, he’d do anything to be with House. For him. Including lying to cops.

‘Maybe,’ he says slowly, tilting his head in concession, ‘I wanted to get away from it all for a couple of days. It’s not like I have a home to return to right now. I live in a hotel room. This was an excuse to let loose, act like an idiot with my best friend. In a forest.’

House gives him a side-glance as they take the steps to the front door. He opens the door for Wilson, and Wilson notices. 

‘If you wanted to get away so bad, all you had to do was ask. We could have run off somewhere together, just the two of us. You could have had me all to yourself.’

It’s a joke. It’s obviously a joke, except usually when House deflects there’s a kernel of truth in it. He tries not to flounder and figure out what he really means, because if he does, he’ll go insane, so he just rolls his eyes and goes with it. House heads towards the staircase, bypassing the living room.

And then he retreats, poking his head around the living room doorframe. 

‘I’d like to establish some ground rules,’ he begins.

Fellows, old and new, are tidying up the beer bottles, looking as if they’re getting ready to head to their rooms. And although they seem to be relaxing in each other’s company – for now – they do still listen to House’s authority, falling into silence and looking at him. 

‘Number one: nobody calls me Greg. Not even you,’ he says, pointing at Cameron, who had a brief episode of calling everyone by their first names as a power-move one day. ‘And especially not you,’ he says, pointing at Kutner, who looks confused at being singled out like this. ‘Two: I will not participate in any activities which include any of the following words in their description – ‘team’, ‘bonding’, ‘character’, ‘building’, ‘trust’, or ‘buddy’. Three: I will be partnering up with Wilson and Wilson only. If we are forced through some turn of fate to take part in any kind of competitive activity, I will destroy all of you.’

They all watch and wait, fully expecting more rules. Wilson included. Then –

‘Oh, and four: I sleep in the nude. Knock before entering.’

House disappears from the living room threshold, leaving his colleagues with that mental image. Naturally, Wilson knows that he doesn’t sleep in the nude at all, after all the nights he’s crashed on his sofa, but the looks on their faces are too funny to correct him.

The staircase is wide, wooden, and Wilson is relieved to note that the whole cabin has been furnished nicely – not littered with animal heads or civil-war rifles. He picks up his bag, which he’d left on the landing, and the two of them search for the spare rooms. 

It goes like this.

The first room on the left has two bags, two outfits laid out for tomorrow. That’s Chase and Cameron. 

The second room has a bag unpacked. Probably Thirteen. 

The third room has a Star Wars jumper crumpled up on the pillow. Kutner. 

The fourth room has a pair of boxers and a tshirt next to the toothbrush and current issue of New York Medical Journal. Foreman. 

The fifth room has an expensive looking leather weekend bag. Taub. 

The sixth room is a bathroom. 

The seventh room is another bathroom. 

The eight room is a free bedroom.

There are no other rooms on this floor. 

After searching for another magical door to appear, both House and Wilson return to the eighth room and hover in the doorway, looking in. It’s big. The ceilings are vaulted. There are chocolates on the pillow. 

‘There has to be some kind of mistake,’ Wilson says.

House rounds on him. ‘Yes, the mistake is that we’re here at all.’

‘Cuddy – _knew_ that I was coming. Did she just – miscount? I –?’

House throws his bag onto the bed, and then throws himself onto the bed, bouncing a little with his arms spread wide across the white sheets. ‘You can take the sofa.’

Wilson closes his eyes, sighs. Throws his free hand up in the air in surrender and leaves the room. 

‘Close the door behind you.’

He scowls, but he does, pulling it shut with more force than necessary before heading downstairs. 

This is going to be truly awful. Forget ‘fun weekend away with friend’, this is going to be torture. And he’s thrown his car key into a lake. A _lake_. What was he thinking-?

Kutner passes him on the staircase. Then, over Wilson’s shoulder- ‘Only one bed left, huh?’

He throws his hand in the air again, this time in a gesture of hopelessness. ‘Yeah. Apparently.’

There’s a look that passes across Kutner’s face that he doesn’t entirely like. It’s almost a knowing smile. ‘Classic.’ Before he can demand any kind of clarification, Kutner’s already up the stairs and heading to his room. ‘Night, Wilson.’

‘… Night?’

Everyone else seems to have been aware of this issue as well, because the moment they see Wilson schlepping in with his weekend bag, they’re biting their lips not to laugh as they all head upstairs. Wilson throws his bag on the floor by the sofa. 

‘Banished to the sofa for the night?’ Taub asks conversationally like a bartender. ‘I know the feeling. He’ll come ‘round.’

‘We’re not –’ How many times has Wilson had to argue that they’re not a couple? How often has he been riled up by jokes about their relationship? ‘Ha-ha.’

Taub smirks, and disappears up the stairs himself, leaving Wilson alone. He looks about the room. The sofa is big. There are blankets. The fire is still going. This should be fine. 

Oh God. None of this is going to be fine.


	2. Raft-Building

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bro this chapter was so hard to write, don't ask me why
> 
> anyway i hope you enjoy it <3

He’s blaming all of this on Wilson. It’s very easy to blame this on Wilson, because it is his fault in almost all respects. 

Firstly, Wilson drove him here. And lied to him. 

Secondly, Wilson threw his car keys in the lake, so now they’re stuck. 

Thirdly, it’s his fault he’s sleeping on the sofa tonight, because he wasn’t even meant to be here in the first place. House and House’s fellows only. 

Fourth, Wilson is the only person who could ever convince House to get in a car upstate New York anyway. Wilson is the only person he does anything for. Yes, he solves medical mysteries and saves people’s lives. He saves them because they’re living Rubik’s cubes. He doesn’t do it _for_ them ( or at least, that’s what he tells himself and everyone else). Acts of good will are totally transparent; social constructs that are there to feed people’s selfish desire to be validated, liked, a ‘good guy’. He doesn’t do those things _for_ anyone except Wilson – for the selfish reason that he wants him to be happy, and House wants it to be because of him. He got in a car with him because he asked him to, and he does things for Wilson because he likes to be certain that he’s his.

Therefore, all of this is _Wilson’s_ fault. 

House glares at the ceiling, turning a pill bottle slowly and listening to the quiet rattle of Vicodin inside. 

He doesn’t want to be here. Of course he doesn’t; who wants to go on a team-bonding trip with their colleagues at the best of times? He’s insufferable and utterly unlikeable, which means he’ll have to deal with all them skittering around and pretending that they aren’t bitching about him behind his back. That’s what they’re meant to be doing, after all. The old fellows, supporting the new ones, giving them advice. Preparing them for the batshit stunts that House will pull. 

Now, it’s not as if he has a problem with that. In fact, he finds the drama entertaining. He’d like to take a box of popcorn and watch his old and new colleagues interact, see what stories Chase, Foreman and Cameron decide to share with the newbies. Watch the web of social drama weave between them. He’d like to do that at the _office_. But this isn’t the office. He isn’t in charge here. They aren’t going to want him here. That’s the price of being a dickhead – experiencing that moment of hearing people laugh, then entering the room, and seeing the light go out of everyone’s eyes. 

Which is possibly why Cuddy had said he could bring Wilson. But then there’s the question of why Wilson would want to come at all. 

_People do stupid things when they’re in love,_ recalling one of his many aphorisms. _Since that can’t be true in Wilson’s case, it must also be true that people do stupid things for their best friends, too. Explains why he lied to Tritter, and why he continued to lie to him even when his practice was in danger, even when I was being an asshole to him. And why he went through the pain of striking up that rehab bargain with him._

There’s also a very simple reason as to why House gave up on breaking into Wilson’s car and decided to stay. But then, he has a PhD in burying feelings, so he’s going to let those thoughts lie deep and unseen. 

Something rustles outside. The ceiling grows less and less interesting, and the pill bottle clatters with quiet music. House turns to look at his watch on his bedside table. Two am. Almost a reasonable time to go to sleep. In a couple of hours’, when he’s lying in the exact same position and still staring at the ceiling, he’ll start getting those horrible lonely feelings that are unlike any other lonely feelings. The madness of an insomniac, a kind of delirium that makes him forget that he’s not completely alone in the universe. 

The corridor creaks with footsteps. House continues to lie on his back, closes his eyes and sighs. With any luck, if he keeps pretending that he’s asleep –

The door opens. House frowns, eyes still closed. ‘Get out. Sleeping.’

‘There’s a bear outside,’ comes the whispered reply. 

That makes him sit upright. Wilson is hovering in the doorway with his shoulders groggily hunched, like the silhouette of a gremlin has snuck into his room. He waves his arms around, as if that will break House out his silence. 

‘There’s! A literal bear! Outside! House!’

‘Are you on speed again?’ House asks mock-reasonably. ‘I promise I didn’t spike you this time.’

‘I am _not fucking around,_ ’ Wilson hisses. 

For a minute, House measures the panicked form of his best friend with amusement, floppy hair awry and eyes wide in alarm. T-shirt and boxers. 

‘Did you lock up before you went to sleep?’

Wilson gesticulates wildly again, as if he’s looking for House to panic with him. ‘Yes! But-?!’

‘Then it’s fine.’ House lies back down, squashes his pillow. ‘When the ursine population of the world grow opposable thumbs and start a revolution, you can wake me up. For now, go away.’

‘Are you kidding? I am _not_ going back down there – I can hear it… _snuffling_. It’s like it can smell fear–’

‘Bears’ favourite food is braised oncologist,’ he says with his eyes closed, hands tucked daintily under his pillow. 

‘Don’t fuck with me. I’m staying with you in here.’

House sits back up again, panicking himself now although for totally different reasons. ‘No. Grow a pair. It’s probably just a racoon. It’ll leave.’

‘I saw it! You know what? Go look outside.’ Wilson has his arms wrapped around his chest – either he’s cold or he’s just that scared. He hovers at the end of the bed. ‘Go. Seriously, look out of the window.’

He had heard something moving around earlier but thought nothing of it. Growing up as a military brat means living in some weird and rural places. Japan had had some pretty intense wildlife, the forests turning into an orchestra of insect noises at night. Weird night-time sounds don’t unsettle him. Wilson, however, gestures to the window, looking totally freaked out. 

With a laborious sigh, he swings his legs out of bed, holding his right leg as he hobbles to the window and opens the drapes a little. The water is dark, the occasional wave catching the moonlight. Wilson’s car, Foreman’s and Thirteen’s both tucked around the corner. 

‘There’s nothing there, you’re- _hooooaaah–_ ’

A black bear is snuffling in the bushes outside the living room window. It’s now scratching its claws along the wooden support beam on the porch, back arched luxuriously and making low groaning noises. It’s wet nose twitches.

‘Bears don’t typically come to built-up areas unless it’s looking for food in the trash,’ House remarks. ‘Interesting.’

‘Now is not the time for us to break out your encyclopaedic knowledge of the black bear.’

House hears the bed creak. He turns and finds Wilson getting under the sheets, pulling them up to his chin like a child with nightmares. 

‘Get out of there.’

‘House. I am not lying in the living room and giving that thing an excuse to sniff around any longer than it already has.’

People think that Wilson is all sugar and spice. That’s what he’s like with everyone else. The reality is that he’s just as stubborn and unreasonable as House – and only he gets to see those colours. Lucky for him. 

House sighs. ‘Fine. I’ll take the sofa, then.’

‘No way!’ House freezes at the doorway, peers at his delightfully sleep-ruffled best friend. ‘You aren’t going down there.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll take this bullet for you,’ he snarks. ‘If I die, tell everyone that I did it to save you all. Maybe they’ll erect a statue in my honour.’

Wilson rubs his face. ‘Yes,’ he says behind his hands. ‘You’re right, I’m being a baby, I know the likelihood of either of us getting mauled by a bear is absolutely miniscule, but please, just – please. I won’t sleep if I know you’re down there and it’s outside the window.’

That makes him pause. Memories of Stacy sending him downstairs to go kill a spider. And that time she begged him to go check if someone had broken in downstairs, because she thought heard someone sneaking around outside the house. (That really had been racoons.)

Now: Wilson hunched in bed and giving him an imploring look to stay. House sighs.

‘Thank you. For sparing my life.’ House berates the happy nerves in his stomach as he takes the other side of the bed. ‘You will be rewarded greatly in heaven.’

‘Thank you.’ Wilson sounds genuinely relieved. His shoulders slouch, and House realises just freaked out he’d been. ‘Thank you.’ 

They look at each other in the dark, in bed, together. House nods in acknowledgement. They both lie down, back to back. They sigh, in sync. 

Wilson sighs again. ‘Does me saving your life from a monster bear attack make up for the fact that I– ’

‘No.’

Behind him, Wilson sighs again. And then they fall quiet; a different kind of quiet to the type he experiences when he’s alone. 

He lies awake all night, listening to Wilson’s silence. 

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. It had been bright outside and Wilson had been breathing deeply – and now, suddenly, he’s waking up. According to his watch it’s seven thirty am, so he got an hour in. Woopty-fucking-doo. 

The bed is empty on his right. There’s the sound of the shower going next door, of people muttering in the corridor. It evokes memories of university, people queuing outside to brush their teeth. He can hear Taub and Cameron making awkward small talk. House rubs his face and groans. Four hours beside Wilson, pretending that he wasn’t listening to him breathe, acting like he didn’t want to roll over and wrap an arm around him. It’s exhausting, lying to himself twenty-four hours a day. 

He lies in bed for a while longer. Listens to the clatter of people getting ready, of Kutner banging on the door and yelling at Taub to hurry up, of Foreman answering someone downstairs that yeah, he’ll take a cup of coffee, he’ll be down in a minute. Cameron knocking on a door and asking if Thirteen has any moisturiser, since she forgot to pack hers. It’s interesting, listening from over here. When he’s sure that they’re all downstairs, he goes and showers. 

There’s no way he’s joining them. He can survive without breakfast or coffee. He usually does until Wilson feeds him at lunch, anyway. So, he stays in his room, sitting by the window reading a book he found on the shelf, some Stephen King novel that was surprisingly one of the least trashy choices. He looks out for a while, listening to the wordless murmurs of his colleagues downstairs. 

Wilson’s voice; he can pick it out from the rest of theirs so easily. Every now and then, asking a question – the tone of his voice rising with an inflection – and the others responding. Business-like but friendly, the voice of a doctor who has people thanking him for telling them they’re going to die. He’s not enjoying being here, House realises; he can tell just by that voice. 

_He’s down there with them when he came to hang out with you,_ he thinks. ‘Apparently,’ he says aloud, because this still doesn’t feel like the full story. He’ll figure out Wilson’s motivations soon enough. 

A woman appears in the car park. She has a buoyant walk and swinging arms, wearing a khaki and brown uniform. Her blonde ponytail swings jauntily. 

‘Ugh, God.’

There’s a knock at the door and he listens as the chatter downstairs goes quiet. Cameron’s voice, probably saying she’ll answer it. The door opening. He can hear their voices more clearly outside. 

‘Hi… you must be –‘

‘I’m your Team-Building Officer, Macy.’ House watches her extend an enthusiastic hand, arm completely straight. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you all.’

‘Hi, I’m Dr Allison Cameron.’

‘I hope you’re all settled in well!’

‘Yeah, it’s great, thank you. I saw from the pamphlet that…’

‘The first activity in your agenda is at ten am.’

According to House’s watch, that’s in an hour and a half. 

‘Do you know what we’ll be doing, or do we just need to be ready when you arrive?’

‘Well, the way we like to run these things here is as a surprise. Otherwise, we find that visitors can ‘psych themselves out’ before an activity!’

House rubs his tired eyes and winces. 

‘OK, well – I’m assuming Dr Cuddy gave you our medical histories…’

House rolls his eyes. Cameron’s polite way of saying _We have someone disabled, don’t make him run laps._

‘Oh, yes, don’t worry, we’re all prepared for you! All I would say is that you should all wear something you don’t mind getting dirty or wet.’

 _Boy, how kinky,_ House thinks. 

‘OOOOOK,’ Cameron says with forced enthusiasm. ‘Sounds great. See you at ten.’

‘Bye, Allison!’

‘…Yeah. Bye, Macy.’

The door closes, and House watches the Officer’s retreat, spring in her step. She notices the abandoned radio antenna by Wilson’s door, tilts her head in interest like a bird, and then continues on her way out of the carpark. 

The muffled voices downstairs start up again. House can’t hear exactly what they’re saying, but he can supplement their words well enough. 

Thirteen. _Well, she sounds delightful._

Cameron, in chastisement. _She was nice._

Taub. _She’s making us get in a boat. She’s not nice._

Kutner. _What makes you think we’re getting in a boat? My money’s on raft-building._

House agrees.

Foreman. _She said wet_ and _dirty. That means she’s expecting us to build something before we get wet. It’s raft-building._

Chase is probably smirking quietly to himself. 

The cabin creaks and echoes with the sounds of voices, and House continues to sit by the window and listen. Book abandoned, he knocks his chin against his cane and ruminates. He needs a plan to get through the next few days. 

A knock on the door. 

‘I’m naked,’ he calls. ‘Enter at your own peril.’

Unfortunately, Wilson sees through most of his lies. The door opens. He’s wearing jeans and a hoodie, arms folded. ‘Hi.’

House is looking at him. He’s looking at Wilson in his casual clothes – he always likes seeing him dressed down – and then he _realises_ that he’s looking, so he looks away. ‘Get any sleep?’

‘Not really,’ Wilson admits. 

‘Neither did I. I _had_ been asleep—’

‘I know, I’m sorry.’ He’s holding his hands up in defence. ‘I was… sleep deprived and freaked out. Thank you for letting me stay.’

House measures his friend. The defensive posture, hands in his pockets but shoulders curved around him. A slightly sheepish expression, one eye wincing, gaze flitting about the room. Shuffling uncomfortably from foot to foot. 

‘If you thought I was gonna punish you _before_ -’

‘No, I’m… aware that I’m dead meat.’

In all honesty, he hasn’t come up with any kind of big prank yet to get his own back for all this. He’ll figure out something. House stares out of the window again, where Chase and Cameron are looking at the lake together, sitting on the bank. Puke. 

‘There. You have checked in on me,’ House announces. ‘I have updated you on my wellbeing. You may now leave.’

‘A girl came by. Called… Macy? I think? She said we need to be ready for 10am.’

House nods slowly. ‘I can almost guarantee you she’s going to force us to build rafts.’

‘So you heard, then.’

‘I’m not going.’

Wilson scoffs from over his shoulder. ‘Well, I’m not going if you’re not going.’

House looks at him. 

‘What?’ he protests. ‘Your colleagues are fine. I’d happily get a drink with them. I’m not going to throw myself into freezing lake water with them.’

Interesting. He’s looking more and more defensive by the minute, arms refolding across his chest. 

‘So, you’re staying here with me.’

‘I don’t want you to be lonely.’

House can’t tell if he’s joking or not. Wilson sits on the bed, then lies back with a _thwump_. 

‘They’re betting downstairs on how long it’ll take for you to make the camp leader cry,’ Wilson continues. ‘Taub said an hour.’

‘Tch. He has so little faith in me.’

‘Chase said ten minutes.’

‘That’s more realistic.’

Wilson peers over at House, raising his head a little. ‘That mean you _are_ going?’

Why would he? Spending time with his fellows isn’t high up on his list. Then again… there is some dark satisfaction in knowing he could sabotage everyone’s fun. He particularly likes the prospect of knocking Wilson off a raft. And he’s competitive. 

Wilson sighs as he thinks about this. ‘I didn’t realise you felt so... Never mind.’

House glares at his friend, unable to see his face, just his legs dangling off the edge of the bed. ‘What?’

‘Oh, nothing.’

He’s so fucking manipulative. ‘No, no, please, what piece of valuable psychoanalysis were you going to share with me, Dr Wilson?’

‘You’re acting like the kid in the playground who thinks he has no friends,’ Wilson says, hands clasped over his stomach. ‘You think no one wants to play with you, and you resent them, even though they ask you to join in on their games. You act like you don’t want to, but deep down, you do. You like the other kids. You’re just not confident enough to join in. You’re scared they’ll push you over and laugh.’

House doesn’t even know where to start. ‘You’re right. I’m scared Cameron will hurt me with her tiny, twig arms.’

‘This always happens,’ Wilson explains. ‘People invite you round for Christmas, or drinks, or… something. And you turn it down, acting like it’s because you’re above it all, but actually, you just don’t think you belong. The _tortured genius_ who’s better off being alone.’

Ignoring this blatant mockery: ‘You think I’m a genius? Why, Jimmy. You really know what to say to a girl.’

‘I’ve fought this battle with you many times. Trying to persuade you to have fun and make friends is like repeatedly walking into a wall. But, you have to admit to yourself, it seems stupid not to join in this weekend. You like the outdoors.’

‘I used to,’ he corrects. Walking and hiking isn’t exactly a thing for him, now.

‘You like puzzles, you like competition. I mean, you met Stacy on one of these things, didn’t you? Doctors vs lawyers paintball? Don’t… deprive yourself of this, just because things have changed.’

There are so many shitty, sarcastic things he could say at this point. Instead, he rests his forehead against his cane and thinks. What’s funny is that he knows how manipulative Wilson is. He’s pretty vigilant of his mind games, so he should be immune. That doesn’t mean he won’t sometimes let himself get sucked in. 

‘Chase bet ten minutes, you say?’

It’s a delightfully warm, sunny day. House starts off by adopting a similarly sunny persona. 

He introduces himself to Macy as Greg, shaking her hand, which leaves everyone stunned. He explains just how excited he is for this trip, and Macy seems happy to hear this. He asks politely if they will be providing life jackets for the water-based activities, and she assures him that he doesn’t need to be an adept swimmer to take part in the fun. Everyone watches the interaction with discomfort – Wilson, Chase and Thirteen looking quietly amused for whatever is about to unfold. 

The location of the ‘fun’ is a little further along the bank of the lake, deeper into the woods. There is a small clearing, the floor soft and bouncy with bark, and Macy announces that they’ll be doing a little warm up trust exercise. Everyone immediately looks like they want to die. Foreman has a talent of giving off a strong, don’t-fuck-with-me aura, and the whole place stinks of it. Taub is fidgeting and sighing, shooting his colleagues resentful looks. Cameron, Kutner and Thirteen seem to be the least horrified. The former, because she no standards. The second, because he has no qualms with doing something stupid. The latter, because she has more things to worry about than looking like an idiot. 

Wilson stands beside House, hands in hoodie pockets. He leans in, mutters, ‘I should not have brought you here. This was a terrible mistake.’

House smirks. 

Thirteen and Kutner volunteer to go first. Macy explains the rules; it’s the classic ‘falling and letting your colleague catch you’ game. Thirteen falls – Kutner catches. There’s a moment where everyone seems relieved, but not exactly surprised. Chase’s shoulders move with a sigh, and he’s rubbing his face, trying not to laugh. When Macy asks them to swap, Kutner looks a little apprehensive. He moves to fall, Thirteen poised to catch – and Kutner stops his fall, abruptly. 

Taub hides his mouth behind his fist. There’s a brief moment of shock on Thirteen’s face, a little hurt that Kutner clearly doesn’t trust her. 

‘Are you serious?’

‘You scare me,’ he explains, a bit sheepishly. 

Macy brushes it off easily, goes to explain that trust building takes time, which is precisely why they’re all here today, yada-yada, and House peers over at Wilson, who’s cradling his chin. 

‘I’m not – we – we are not doing that,’ Wilson asserts, pointing at their colleagues. ‘I’ve been friends with you for fifteen years, and I know for a fact that you’d rather let me face plant than catch me.’

‘So… you _trust_ that I won’t catch you?’

Wilson gives him a look. 

When Macy asks for another volunteer, House cheerily offers his services. There is an audible murmur around the circle. Nobody volunteers to join him, and House taunts each of them with a sweet smile. Taub is elected by Macy at random, and he approaches House with a look of horror and resignation. 

House goes ahead with the task with such good humour that it takes Macy by surprise when House steps neatly out of the way as Taub falls into the mud.

By eleven o’clock, they’re sitting on the cold, grassy bank of the lake, tying logs and barrels together. 

House is looking at the view. The forest line is a deep green this time of year, the sky having turned a little grey and the water mirroring it. The sounds of birds and rustling envelopes them, and in front, this expansive lake that occasionally ripples with the breeze, fish dipping their heads out and creating bubbles. 

‘Are you gonna help me at all?’

Thirteen is tying a knot around a plank of wood that will contribute to the surface of the raft, trying to attach it to the log underneath. She’s pulling at the knot with her boot against the log, pursing her lips with effort and her hands muddy. In fact, there’s mud all over her old jeans and waterproof jacket, too. 

‘Nope,’ House replies easily, and looks back out at the view. 

‘You could continue sulking that Wilson chose not to partner with you,’ she says reasonably, ‘or you could go back to the cabin. _Or,_ you could help me tie this knot. Because the training leader was too scared of you to tell us how to do it.’

She hasn’t cried yet, though, which is a shame. ‘ _Or_ ,’ he offers enthusiastically, ‘I could sit here and enjoy this thoroughly pleasant view.’

Thirteen’s doing a good job by herself, she doesn’t need his help. On his left, Foreman and Chase are working with silent efficiency. On his right, Taub and Kutner are bickering over whether the knot Taub’s tied is strong enough. Wilson and Cameron are talking quietly, probably about something depressing. Wilson catches his eye, gives him a despairing look as he notices that House is sitting on his ass doing fuck all. 

He sighs. Turns around, where he views the knot Thirteen is tying. ‘That’s the wrong kind of knot. It needs to be a figure of eight lashing.’

Thirteen leans back on her heels. Stares at the skeleton of the raft, then back at House in mild surprise. ‘I didn’t take you for the kind of kid who went to scouts.’

‘Funny, I took you for the kind of kid who would have.’ 

Thirteen shrugs, as ever, not giving him anything. House appreciates that. He stays put, watching Thirteen undo the knot and begin wrapping it around in a figure of eight. It isn’t nearly tight enough. Naturally, that might be to do with the fact that her hands are particularly unsteady today, but he isn’t about to patronise her by helping. 

She looks at her work. He can see her grinding her teeth. 

And it’s weird, because he’s always felt something strangely protective towards Thirteen. Or maybe it’s that he understands the kind of person who would want to keep her cards to her chest, who wouldn’t want people to treat her differently for her disability. Either way, there’s always been a sense of kinship, even when she’s fucked something up – especially when she’s fucked something up. So, House scooches over, waves her hands away from the raft. 

He unties the knot, pulls out the rope. 

‘Hold the log and the plank still.’

She does. House wraps the rope around in a figure of eight, pulling it tight. He sees Thirteen’s arms tense as she tries to hold them still for him. When they seem suitably bound, he finishes the knot, and he gives the plank a wiggle for good measure. Nice and secure. 

‘You do the next one.’

And she does. Wilson has always said that he’s a natural born leader, even if he’s also immensely unlikeable to many. House holds the planks still and watches her work. He feels like a resident again, training his little batch of quivering, nervous interns. She begins to wrap.

‘No,’ he stops her. ‘The rope goes around like this. See, both ways.’

He’s formulating a ‘goes both ways’ joke, it’s on the tip of his tongue, but Thirteen interrupts his thought process. 

‘Oooh, I get it,’ she says. ‘I would know a thing or two about that.’

House marvels at her for a moment. It’s like it’s Christmas. That’s when he realises that he doesn’t just like Thirteen, he respects her. 

‘I knew it. I _totally_ called it.’

‘I need to stop wearing suspenders to work,’ she mutters, smiling.

‘No way. The ladies _love_ it,’ he jokes. 

Her smile grows as she pulls the rope tight, House holding the wood still for her. ‘The new nurse in paediatrics certainly does.’

Correction: it’s like his birthday and Christmas rolled into one. ‘You do realise you’ve provided me with bullying fodder for as long as you’re working for me?’ He wordlessly extends a hand for more rope, leans to drag the next log over to bind to the raft. ‘Not your smartest move.’

She shrugs. ‘It’s not like I’m not used to you taunting me. And I don’t care who finds out. It’s only a matter of time before Lucy from paediatrics tells everyone that I rocked her world.’

House has to stop from biting his fist. God, the mental image.

‘Besides,’ Thirteen continues, ‘homophobic jokes are almost funny when they come from someone who isn’t straight themselves.’

House stares at their hands on the raft. Then he looks at her. She isn’t even deigning to look back, smiling innocently as she takes the rope from House’s hands and starts tying. Then, when he doesn’t say anything, she looks up and starts laughing. 

‘Why would you say that?’ he demands, voice serious and quiet. 

She holds her hands up. ‘I’m not going to out you, OK? I’m not as much of a dick as you.’

House stares at her. What has she seen? What has she noticed about him? He can’t think of a single thing that would have given it away. Not even Wilson knows. 

‘How did you know?’

She tilts her head in thought. ‘I didn’t, just guessed. Gaydar, maybe. Am I right?’

Rookie error. He fell right into that. He needs to recover this. ‘What, a guy has sex with another guy every so often and suddenly he’s bisexual?’ 

She laughs under her breath. ‘…In many cases, yes.’ 

‘Pah. You’re just forcing your sexuality on me.’ 

That makes her laugh out loud. 

They finish the rest of their raft quietly, both of them avoiding each other’s eyes. They work together thoughtlessly. The sound of Foreman losing his patience, Chase complaining about having to start part of their raft over again. 

‘That’s a juicy piece of information you just found out.’

Thirteen peers up at him. ‘And? You really think I’m going to tell?’

‘This is a group bonding trip,’ he explains matter of factly. ‘Best way to bond is to bitch about your boss. Better yet, share something you found out about him.’

She sighs, tugging tightly on the rope. ‘I meant it. You might be the type of person to make gay jokes and tell everyone I have a chronic disease. I’m not.’

It seems like she’s telling the truth. But then, House is never sure with Thirteen. 

‘By the way,’ she adds. ‘It wasn’t gaydar. I know because you’re obviously in love with Wilson.’

House doesn’t look up. He won’t fall for that trap again. ‘I am not in love with Wilson.’ 

He hopes it sounds convincing. They move over to the final corner, tying a figure of eight knot. 

‘You don’t do a good job of hiding it.’

He glares at her. She purses her lip in apology. 

‘No one else has brought this up,’ he says quietly, hoping she’ll confirm that this is indeed the case. 

‘Yeah. They’re all too straight to realise that queer people actually exist in real life. And the only reason _you_ haven’t noticed that he’s into you is because you’re too close to the situation.’

‘Stop it,’ he mutters.

She does, at least, have the decency to do that. They continue to work silently, House showing her how to bind the barrels to the platform of the raft. A different knot is required for this, and he demonstrates first, making her do the second one. By the time they’ve finished, House notices that they’re the first team to complete their raft. 

‘Ha-ha,’ he taunts, pointing at Kutner and Taub’s miserable looking raft. 

‘I’m a trained plastic surgeon,’ Taub argues. ‘I don’t… do this kind of stuff.’

‘What, you don’t know how to tie a knot? You’re a doctor, you’ve sewn sutures before,’ Chase says.

That seems to amuse the others, House included, and Taub gives up on gaining any sympathy. Kutner is the only one patient enough to deal with his gripes, extending a hand to redo the knot and show him how to do it properly. 

Wilson looks at him. They share one of those best-friend looks that conveys a feeling rather than any real message. It makes him snort to himself. Wilson smirks. 

‘How are you finished already?’ Foreman says. ‘House wasn’t even doing anything for half of it.’

‘You might think you’re turning into me,’ House replies, sitting on his raft, ‘but I’m still at least four times better than you at everything.’

The rafts are built. House and Thirteen sit side by side on theirs, superhero and sidekick, making unhelpful remarks to the rest of the teams. Wilson yells at House to shut up, pretty much the only person who would dare to other than Foreman, and that brings the mood up significantly. He expects to be angry when they all begin to tease him for turning up for raft-building at all. Strangely, enough, he isn’t. It absolutely would not fly in the office, but here, it sort of works. The tone is irreverent but affectionate – except for Foreman and Taub, who quite explicitly don’t like him. 

The Team-Building Officer (eurgh) makes a reappearance, braving it and asking them all to push out their rafts. And he’s suddenly very happy that he has Thirteen on his team. He needs someone ruthless if they’re going to be the last raft standing. 

Chase and Foreman are talking to Wilson and Cameron, possibly discussing strategy. They have left their raft unprotected. 

Thirteen looks at House, clearly sharing the exact same thought. 

‘You’re smaller and sprightlier than I – go, comrade, go.’

Thirteen smirks, tiptoes comically to their raft in her lifejacket. She bends down beside Foreman and Chase’s raft and scrabbles to loosen a knot, casting her eyes around her to check that she’s safe. Presently, she returns.

‘I didn’t loosen it all the way,’ she reports, ‘they’d notice if it were completely undone. But it won’t survive in the water for longer than a minute.’

House pretends to smother a sob. ‘I have taught you well.’

She shakes her head to herself, but she is smiling. 

The time has come to push out the rafts. It requires teamwork just getting onto the fucking thing, and it’s highly entertaining seeing Kutner try to pull Taub onto their raft, arms waving like a cartoon character running off a cliff. Chase pushes their raft out, gets on with the ease of someone who’s probably been surfing a thousand times. He holds out a hand to Foreman, who looks at him like he’s a moron, and climbs on without help. Wilson slips trying to get onto his raft, face planting in the shallow water. Cameron can barely contain her laughter as she tries to push him on ass first. It’s completely undignified for a team of doctors. 

House and Thirteen, however, have their heads in the game. They mount their raft with the calm of two warriors entering battle. The water undulates beneath them, making balance difficult, but he’s going to have to do this bit without his cane. 

By the shore, Taub almost slips off theirs, Kutner catching him by the armpits. 

‘Kutner and Foreman’s teams are both out,’ House begins, only just bracing himself on the tiny platform they’re sharing. 

Thirteen nods along seriously. ‘I have a feeling Wilson and Cameron will make a more formidable opponent than we think.’

The two of them watch their colleagues paddle further into the lake. They stand tall and proud on their raft. Macy is calling out some rules from the bank, but nobody listens. 

‘We should give our raft a name,’ Thirteen asserts. ‘Something strong. Like “The Valhalla”.’

House nods in approval. He knocks his oar against Thirteen’s, taking him back to his lacrosse days. ‘Let’s eat them alive.’

‘Yes, captain.’

What starts off as a friendly paddle about a lake turns into a massacre. Kutner and Taub’s raft disintegrates first, Thirteen only needing to give it a prod before the first barrel comes loose and tips them into the water. Kutner is laughing and spouting water out of his mouth in a fountain, but Taub is less impressed, threatening to kill all of them. 

If this were a sports match, the commentary would be outstanding—

_-And now we’re seeing House and Thirteen coming up on the left, having established a threatening pace with their oar-strokes, there. And it looks like they’ve caught Foreman and Chase off guard – Foreman aims to jab The Valhalla, and – oh! – but House has got there first, using his oar to undo the loose rope! And it looks like it’s the end of the line for team Foreman-Chase, who are putting up a valiant effort to keep their raft together, Foreman bending to redo the rope, but sadly it’s not enough – there they go, into the water, Chase clinging onto a barrel and spewing a stream of swear words that don’t bear repeating._

_But it’s not just fun and games for The Valhalla, who still have one more team to beat. Team Wilson-Cameron, who are coming up fast with a surprisingly strong stroke, Cameron making a nice attempt there at knocking her former boss off his raft. But, ah, he knows her too well, he evades her swipe just in time – oh! But Thirteen has lost balance! Are they going to fall? Are team Valhalla going to fall off their raft? It looks like it, Thirteen is grappling for support, House has grabbed her by her life jacket – and it looks like they’re safe, for now, what a lucky turn of events we’re seeing._

_Wilson’s muttering something to his team-mate there, and Cameron looks confident now as they paddle towards their enemy raft once more. But the Valhalla doesn’t seem deterred, they’re ready, they’re all ready for this final battle._

_‘Just fall in already!’ Wilson cries out. Fighting talk, or desperation?_

_‘Don’t be a pussy!’ That’s Thirteen, her competitive streak coming through nicely, and her team-mate seems to share her feelings, too._

_‘Only one of us can survive,’ a pretty bold threat from Doctor House._

_Thirteen jabs at Wilson-Cameron’s boat. Cameron keeps steady, a remarkable show of balance, and Wilson only just holds on. A combined effort, now, as House and Thirteen spray water at their opponents as a distraction – this could just work, if they could get the timing right –_

-It happens in less than a second. 

Giddy with adrenaline. House is about to knock Wilson off the raft whilst his eyes are closed, wiping water out of his vision. But then Wilson pushes back his wet hair from his face with one hand, smiling and laughing carelessly. His t-shirt is wet, clinging to his skin, and he’s looking at House. Eyes fierce and happy and he looks – he looks –

 _-Oh, but House seems to be distracted! He doesn’t take the opportunity – oh, what a shame, The Valhalla has lost it – Wilson uses his oar as a lance and prods House in the chest, and that’s all it takes, he’s falling backwards into the water now. There he goes, he’s down, Doctor Gregory House is down. Team Wilson-Cameron have won, fair and square, leaving Thirteen alone on her raft, her opponent looking sheepish in the water, and very disappointed in himself indeed._

\- The water is freezing. He gasps to regain his breath, lungs forgetting how to take in air with the cold, and he feels his hair plastered to his forehead. Some kind of lakeweed lapping against his legs. The sound of laughter and cheers are muffled as his ears dip in and out of the water. House grasps the edge of the raft, tips it, gives Thirteen an evil smirk before she falls backwards. 

She emerges quickly, spitting water and making angry noises of complaint. ‘You got distracted!’

House pants, breath coming out foggy in front of him. Wilson is crying out in victory, holding up Cameron’s hand above their heads. His eyes find House in the water, shouts over to him: ‘LOOOOOOOOSSSERRRRRRR!’

So, there it is. Wilson managed to push him into the lake after all. He let himself distracted. Wilson’s _face_ distracted him.

‘Dude,’ Thirteen pants, bobbing in the water beside him. ‘You are so, so gay.’

House doesn’t even look at her. He stares at Wilson, gloating and being gorgeously insufferable. 

The diner is filled with disgruntled, drunk team-builders. The table behind theirs is filled with publishers. Another, journalists. There are few lawyers here too. Everyone is drinking to forget their day, the doctors included. The wallpaper in this place is peeling away. There are signed photographs of C-rate celebrities and Coca-Cola brand napkin holders. 

They’d all headed back to the cabin, cleaned up, found lunch here, and they’ve been here since. House has no idea what time it is. Wilson buys a round of drinks. He’s already well on his way to being drunk, and House is trying to catch up with him by sneaking drinks from everyone else’s glasses when their backs are turned. Taub, Foreman and Kutner are at the bar – they’ve been there for a while, just sitting there and talking. The rest of them are taking up a booth, Chase having stolen a stool so he doesn’t have to squeeze himself in next to House. He’s getting nicely drunk now, sharing a giant pitcher of some God-awful cocktail that looks like it’d glow in the dark – only because Wilson likes cocktails and no one else would share it with him. Two straws float around in it. 

Wilson’s hair is dry now. Disney-Princeified and swept back. It’s been a while since he’s seen Wilson looking relaxed and happy. 

‘I’ve honestly never been surfing before!’ Chase exclaims, knocking House out of his pathetic daydream. 

‘I seriously do not believe that,’ Thirteen accuses with her beer bottle pointed at him. ‘You have that blonde haired, sun-kissed skin thing.’

‘It’s not like there’s a biological imperative for blonde, tanned people to be able to surf!’

‘You rode that raft like a man who knew how to surf.’

‘Come on. I’m _sure_ you told me once you learned to surf once, when you were a kid.’

‘Where the hell did you get that from?’ 

‘Are you seriously trying to tell me that _not all_ Australian people know how to surf?’ 

House tuts. ‘God. You guys are so insensitive. Chase is _British._ That’s why he can’t surf.’

‘Where the hell did _you_ two learn how to be total badasses, anyway?’ Thirteen demands of Wilson and Cameron. 

Wilson and Cameron share a look, and then high-five over the table. 

‘A professional keeps her methods closely guarded,’ Cameron explains smugly. 

‘No,’ Thirteen shakes her head, ‘You, I get. Wilson, I’m more surprised by.’

Wilson splutters in complaint, mid-sip from his pitcher of girly-cocktail. ‘What the hell? I can be badass!’

‘You look like a Beanie Baby teddy bear,’ Thirteen says. 

And that makes House laugh. He blames it on the fact that he’s drunk. None of his fellows have seen him actually laugh before, he reckons, and it makes them all look at each other, a little wide-eyed. Like they can’t believe their luck. 

‘Hey! Screw you!’ Wilson complains. ‘I can be hardcore!’

That makes Cameron, Chase and Thirteen absolutely lose it. Chase is wiping an actual tear from his eye. Wilson is looking to House for help, but he offers none. 

‘I’m badass on a daily basis – I – I save lives every day!’

His fellows are inconsolable. 

‘Please, stop, I can’t breathe,’ Thirteen wheezes.

House grabs the pitcher. ‘Wilson, for the love of God, you've done enough,’ he mocks. ‘Can’t you see you’re killing them?’

He slumps in his side of the booth, amused and bemused in equal measure as the three fellows try to catch their breaths. House drains the bottom of the pitcher, where the alcohol has turned watery from the melting ice. He’s feeling warm, anyway, so it’s kind of nice. Refreshing. He stares at Wilson, not caring if he’s caught. Possibly drunker than anticipated. 

‘And I thought _you_ would be a little more cut-throat,’ Wilson accuses of House. He’s blinking slowly, head rolling a little. ‘I thought you’d be all… _for the honour of Grayskull!_ about it.’

There’s a round of _ooooos_ from the fellows. 

House scoffs. ‘I fought _bravely_.’

‘We both did,’ Thirteen corrects. 

‘But ya didn’t win.’ Wilson shrugs. He takes a smug sip from his pitcher, finding it disappointingly empty. 

‘I let you win,’ House retorts. ‘If I’d beaten you, you’d’ve been a giant piss-baby for the entire weekend.’

‘Oh and? This isn’t you? Being a giant piss-baby?’

House snorts. ‘Fine, pretend that you’re badass. You’re the one who crawled into bed with me last night because the wildlife was giving you nightmares.’

‘What?’ Chase demands.

House smirks, leaning back in his seat and playing with a bottle cap. Wilson flounders. 

‘There was a bear outside.’

‘Wait, for real?’ 

‘Yeah, an actual, real life bear outside the living room window.’

Thirteen stretches a sympathetic hand across the table and holds his arm. ‘Did it threaten to huff and puff and blow the house down?’

‘That’s a wolf, asshole,’ Wilson retorts weakly.

‘There, there,’ Chase pats him on the shoulder. 

‘Pretty unusual for bears to come down this far,’ Cameron remarks with vague interest.

House throws his hands up. ‘That’s what _I_ said, and Wilson accused me of being a hold-hearted bitch.’

Wilson gives him a long, hard look. He leans across the table towards House, a little clumsily, and Chase snorts at how drunk he clearly is. 

‘It’s OK, House. Perhaps… next time, I’ll let _you_ win. How’d you like that?’

Hooooo. Hoo boy. Competitive Wilson always gets him riled up. Scratch that – it makes him horny as hell. 

He leans until they’re both stretching towards each other across the table. ‘How would _you_ like to be the owner of a black eye and new best friend?’

There’s a pointed, throat-clearing noise. Cameron’s looking at House with a pursed smile. ‘I think I’m gonna get another drink.’

The heat of irritation hits his face like a slap. He doesn’t like Cameron’s tone, but he moves anyway, stepping out of the booth to let her go. Thirteen gives him a smile that’s far too knowing. He should never have told her anything. The nosy bastard. And House looks at Wilson, feeling suddenly angry. He makes him act like an idiot. Only Wilson makes him act like an idiot, and his colleagues got to see him at peak idiocy today. Getting distracted by his best friend’s wet t-shirt contest impression. Wilson seems totally unaware, making load sucking noises as he tries to drain the cranberry ice-water at the bottom of the jug. 

‘Wilson,’ Cameron says over her shoulder. ‘Top up?’

A perfectly awful idea occurs to House. Before Wilson can answer, he takes out some cash from his wallet, hands it to Cameron. ‘Round of tequila for the table.’

‘Oof,’ Chase winces. ‘You’re trying to kill us?’

Wilson slams a fist against the table. ‘Yes! Tequila, let’s do this!’

That is how the doctors of Princeton Plainsboro make a total embarrassment of themselves, giving their well-renowned hospital a very bad name indeed. 

What was meant to be a main-stage for live acts only becomes a karaoke stage – according to Wilson, anyway. Wilson has always been endlessly entertaining when drunk, as evidenced by the multiple pictures of him pole-dancing against lamp posts and the fond memory of him jumping off a first-floor balcony into a bush. Now, he’s picking up the mic, testing to see if it works, but no one can hear him. 

And _now_ he’s dancing on stage, by himself. No shame. Arms everywhere. T-shirt and jeans, hair a mess and cheeks red. And now he’s linking arms with Kutner and dancing to some country tune. This is Wilson at his finest.

House is sat beside Foreman. He doesn’t remember what they’ve been talking about, but it had seemed relatively interesting at the time. He drains the last dregs of his beer. Wilson sitting at the edge of the stage, peering through the bottom of a glass like it’s a telescope. It’s utterly endearing. 

‘Look at him.’

Foreman does. ‘You gonna take him home?’

‘God, no.’

He distantly hears Foreman chuckling as he stands up – shakily – and heads to the stage, where Wilson has gone back to saying _one two, one two_ into the mic, with no luck. 

‘Technical difficulties?’

Wilson peers at him blearily. Then he points the microphone at him with great enthusiasm. ‘House!’

He extends his arms. ‘It is I.’

‘The mic won’t work.’

‘A mystery,’ House shrugs. ‘I’ll solve it for you.’

He leaves Wilson happily dancing on stage to ‘Don’t Stop Believing’ by Journey. He is pleased to see that he has been accompanied by a drunk Thirteen, who is bellowing the lyrics like her life depends on it. 

House stumbles to the bar. He leans across it at a forty-five degree angle. 

‘GARCON!’

The bar is busy with locals and lawyers. It takes a while for someone to come along, leaving House mumbling along to the lyrics, eyes falling closed. But then he sees someone appear. 

‘Sorry for the wait.’

‘Busy night. Should I have worn my low-cut top?’

The bartender gives a sharkish grin. ‘You’re all certainly tearing it up tonight.’

‘We don’t get out much,’ he replies truthfully. ‘I would like to purchase a jug of your finest ‘woo-woo’ cocktail for the gentleman onstage. And-’ he leans further, conspiratorially, ‘-who do I have to pay to get that microphone turned on?’

The bartender starts making the drinks. He laughs, shaking his head. ‘Karaoke is on Wednesday nights. Your boyfriend will have to wait ‘til then.’

House twists his lip. Dives inside his jeans pocket, slides a note across the bar. He has no idea how much he’s just bribed this guy with, too drunk to look or care, but it’s apparently a lot, because his eyes widen and then he disappears behind the bar. There’s the hum of electricity, and then Wilson’s voice echoes horrifically throughout the diner. There’s a small chorus of cheers from his fellows, whilst everyone else winces unhappily. Night: ruined. The bartender remerges, looking a bit guilty as his colleagues glare at the back of his head. 

House grins, pats him on the cheek as a goodbye and thank you. He steals the jug of woo-woo and approaches his fellows – old and new – and is greeted by a round of applause. Reward for getting the microphone on, he supposes. He accepts the praise with a bow, because he’s never been the humble type, and takes a hefty drink from the jug, pouring pink alcohol down his chin and t-shirt. 

He’s suddenly brought into a rough hug. Wilson, drunkenly babbling to him, House babbling back. Thanking him for the microphone, for the drink, telling him he’s an asshole, making him laugh. He hugs back, the sort of macho hug that’s too many hands – not macho at all – fingers all over Wilson’s back and his neck and his arms. Wilson grabbing onto House's t-shirt.

It’s a blur from that point on. Wilson has a heartfelt conversation with Thirteen, leaning against a wall and drinking from the pitcher House bought. Foreman, Chase, and House perform their own karaoke number of ‘Midnight Train to Georgia’, which gets a nice round of applause, mostly from Kutner. Taub goes missing for a while, and he can only assume it’s because he’s chatting up someone, away from the embarrassment. There’s some bad dancing, from all of them. One of them gets up on a table… no one will remember who. 

And there’s Wilson again. He’s making a total fool of himself singing ‘Uptown Girl’ and accompanying dance routine. Tuneless, messy, drunk Wilson. He’s perfect like this. Occasionally pointing at House as he sings – as if House is an uptown girl – and it hurts. Just another pain to live with. It turns out that Kutner has a digital camera, and he orders his fellow to record the entire thing. He wouldn’t be a good friend if he didn’t take any opportunity to humiliate tomorrow morning’s Wilson at any given moment. 

The time goes by quickly. Strange how, when you’re blind drunk, the time disappears – six hours feels like two. The bar closes and they walk home through the forest along the footpath, all eight of them stumbling through the dark. The walk feels long and his leg hurts and he thinks he might pass out anyway. He finds himself being given a piggyback by Foreman. He complains and flails at first, but then it becomes clear that there’s no point in fighting the inevitable. 

He’s sure he’ll regret this tomorrow. 

House wakes up regretting a lot of things. 

Firstly, there’s the fact that he feels like there’s a carpet in his mouth and his brain has been replaced by a dead fish. Then there’s the fact that Foreman had given him a _piggyback_ last night. And then, there’s the memory of raft building.

He groans. He buries his face in his pillow, squeezing his eyes shut. He opens them again. 

There’s an arm on him. House peers down, views where it has slung itself over his waist, measures the situation with a horrible mixture of panic and resignation. Rolling over, stomach churning, he sees his best friend. He is sleeping with his mouth open, drool patch on the pillow, hair everywhere and snoring lightly. 

House looks for a moment longer. He closes his eyes again, breathes a frustrated sigh through his nose. And then he rolls onto his back, pretending to sleep a little longer with Wilson’s arm across his body. Asking himself what the hell he’s doing here.


	3. I Don't Bond Like This With All My Colleagues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the s m u t  
> this ended up being a bit more explicit than i anticipated. can people let me know if it needs to be moved up to E instead of M rating?
> 
> If you don't want to read the smut- i'd stop reading the moment they leave the kitchen and go up to the bedroom. Lol.

Wilson wakes up feeling like a cartoon anvil has been dropped on his head. And that’s not even the worst part. No, the worst part by far is waking up with his arm across House’s chest, whose eyes are closed as he breathes slow and measured. 

‘Ugh… God…’ 

House cracks open an eye. Has he been awake this entire time? 

Closing his eye again, he takes a deep breath and shouts: ‘HOW ARE YOU FEELING?’

Wilson recoils, brings his arm into his body and buries himself under the duvet. ‘Shhhhh- shh- ugh, why are you so awful?’

There isn’t any response. Wilson stays under the sheets, curled up in the foetal position and wondering if there’s a way to wind back time to when he didn’t feel like a vodka-soaked flannel. 

There were some nice things about yesterday. In fact, it was an amazing day – knocking House off his raft – the look of dismay and slack-jawed surprise on his face when he tumbled backwards into the water – the angry, wet dog look as he paddled. He had looked so furious, and that had made Wilson’s gloating all the more sweet. And then the unexpected night out… as much as he’s paying for it today, it had been a lot of fun. Humiliating, obviously, but that’s what it’s always like when he’s drunk and House is involved. House enables Wilson just as much as Wilson does him. 

Oh, but the shit he said, the things he did… it’s all murky, yet he knows he should be mortified. He recalls most of what happened before the tequila shots (including his shameless flirting. Good Lord…) and he _vaguely_ remembers a few incidents that came after. He remembers someone dancing on a table. He remembers House, Chase and Foreman doing karaoke – now that had been one for the books. And he – 

He remembers hugging House. Inspired by a rush of idiocy, an urge to touch him. He’d stumbled over, grabbed the pitcher House had bought for him, had felt so overwhelmed by the act of friendship of turning the microphone on that –

‘Did I…’ Wilson begins to remember. He pokes his head from under the duvet, finds House staring blankly at the ceiling. ‘Did I… at one point… sing Uptown Girl? To a bar full of strangers?’

House blinks a slow smile. ‘Dance moves included.’

‘Nooooo…’ Wilson slides back under the duvet. ‘Why? Why does this always happen when I’m drunk with you? I never make this much of a fool of myself when you’re not there.’

Again, there’s no response. Wilson shuts his eyes against the light that’s shining through the crack in the duvet. Yes, there had been a lot of singing, last night. Nobody had tried to stop him, and he doesn’t think he can forgive any of them for that. 

‘Why did you come?’

Wilson frowns into the dark under the sheets. It’s hot in here, and his voice is probably muffled. But he thinks that if he sits up he’ll hurl. So, he stays put when he replies with, ‘I told you. I needed to catch a break… not that I’m not living the dream, going home to an empty hotel room every night…’

‘You’re lying to me.’

That’s – Wilson takes a steadying breath, rolls around and pulls the duvet down to view House. He’s staring at the ceiling, a deep frown and eyes bright with anger. 

‘I mean. There’s also the fact that I wanted an excuse to push you into a lake. I think I’ve satisfied that urge, for now.’

‘We never should have come.’

Wilson exhales. ‘What are you talking about? I thought you enjoyed it yesterday. You got super into the raft stuff, at least. And last night…’

His head rolls to examine Wilson. He’s searching for the truth, and Wilson refuses to give it to him. He’s only just coming to terms with it himself. 

‘I could be at home watching porn and eating a multi-pack of Cheetos. Instead I’m spending my weekend pretending to be buddies with my subordinates.’

‘Oh don’t _fool_ yourself, House.’ He’s angry, now. He had been surviving this morning by riding on the glow of last night’s festivities, but now that’s well and truly ruined. ‘You enjoyed yesterday. You’re just being a defensive bitch because you’re feeling vulnerable.’

‘You’re right. That moment I dropped Taub on the floor really got under my skin. I’ve been feeling guilty about it since.’

‘If you hate being here so much, then why don’t you just leave?’ They’re both sitting up in bed now, shouting at each other like a dysfunctional couple. ‘You would never usually, willingly have _fun_ with _other people_ – at least not for this long – so why don’t you just go? Get a taxi home?’

‘I just didn’t wanna abandon you,’ he mocks snidely. 

‘You are so transparent!’ Wilson swings out of bed, and the world shifts for a second. ‘You… we’re both here for the same, twisted, best-friend code that keeps us coming back to each other the entire time! We’ve never abandoned each other, not even when it comes to – totally mortifying team-building work trips like this!’

‘Thank you for shedding some light on the matter,’ House snaps. 

For a moment, Wilson is dizzy. And it’s not just the hangover. This argument erupted from nowhere. That unpredictable, addictive side of knowing House comes biting him in the ass. He sighs, slumping back onto the bed and massaging his temple. 

‘If you’re gonna hurl, take it outside of _my_ room.’

He turns and glares at House, who’s hobbling out of bed himself looking absolutely terrible. That makes Wilson feel a little better. He rests his face in his hands, his breath heating up his face as House opens the door to leave. 

Between his fingers, he sees Kutner and Foreman waiting outside the bathroom in their pyjamas. They’re staring at House and Wilson, lips pursed and awkward. 

‘Don’t worry, kids, mommy and daddy are just having a little disagreement,’ House announces bitterly, giving Wilson a resentful glare before shutting the door in his face. 

That’s how the day starts. Wonderful, to be sure. Wilson downs the glass of water that’s on House’s side of the bed, finds an aspirin in his weekend bag and knocks it back. The idea of food feels like the worst thing in the world, but it’d probably be for the best to have something to soak up the various, lethal cocktails he ingested. He tries to get dressed, getting as far as putting on a clean t-shirt and sweatpants before shuffling out of the room. 

Chase is coming out of the bathroom in a wake of steam. He looks like Adonis, hair slightly awry and lips wet from brushing his teeth. He smirks. ‘Wow. You look like shit, Wilson.’

He doesn’t even want to speak. He just waves at him vaguely, hoping that gets the point across. And Chase looks weirdly taller than usual- he realises that’s because he’s hunching, feeling so broken by last night’s events that he can’t bear to stand up straight. 

‘I see this is what happens when you choose House for a best friend.’

‘I make very poor choices in friends.’

‘Looks like he went off for a walk,’ Chase says. ‘He was more pissed than usual. What did you do?’

‘I existed,’ Wilson says lackadaisically. 

‘Everyone else is downstairs looking at the photos.’

Wilson halts in the corridor, right at the top of the stairs. Chase makes his way down, looks back up at Wilson expectantly.

‘Photos?’ 

‘Yeah. You don’t remember Kutner taking pictures on his digital camera?’

Wilson’s hands come to his face. ‘I remember so little,’ he moans. 

‘There are just as many bad ones of House as you. And… me. Unfortunately.’

They both head downstairs again. ‘But you seem fine! How is that fair?’

Chase shrugs, and Wilson hates him. 

The six fellows greet him with wry cheer, and Kutner pats him comfortingly on the shoulder. He finds a mug of coffee, chews gingerly on the corner of a slice of toast. It takes him an hour to finish the slice and by the end of it he can just about stomach some fruit, too. During this time, he bears witness to Kutner’s photos. He flicks through them chronologically, the time stamp in the bottom right hand corner going from nine pm to two am. 

The first photos are of Wilson shouting into a microphone. Most of them have his eyes half-open, pupils red from the flash. Then there’s a video of him singing and dancing to Uptown Girl, which is… traumatising and also morbidly fascinating. He can hardly look away. And then there’s actual photographic evidence of the House-Foreman-Chase karaoke experience, which is magnificent. And just when he thought it couldn’t get better, there’s a picture of the two of them singing something together, looking so impassioned by the whole thing that it’s as if they really think they’re performing for a live audience. It makes him laugh. And then there’s Cameron air-guitaring on House’s cane, Kutner using it as a rifle. The faces of random people in the background looking horrified by their behaviour. 

But the best of all – by far, the best picture of all – is that of House being carried on Foreman’s back, Kutner photobombing with bunny-ears. 

They all sit around uselessly and nap, sprawled across the cabin. Wilson almost feels normal, now, having eaten enough to soak up last night’s poor life choices. He makes the depressing discovery that he spent all of his cash at the diner – ‘ _How the hell did I spend two hundred dollars last night?!’_ – and that he left his jacket there. By lunchtime, which consists of 7/11 delights that Taub picked up yesterday, House finally makes his appearance. 

He steps in through the front door, bringing with him a chilly atmosphere. Kutner wordlessly gives him his digital camera, and he flicks through the evening’s events alone in the kitchen. He gets as far as Wilson’s Billy Joel impressionist debut before he finally smiles. 

Eight doctors stand in full camouflage gear, wearing face shields and bearing paintball guns. The trees are graffitied with bright neon paint splotches. There is a fort built out of old driftwood and blackened pine. Across from them, their Team-Building Officer wears a nervous smile.

‘So, before we start, I’d like to split you into two groups of four…’

And before she even finishes, House steps out from the rank and turns to them, standing directly in front of Macy and blocking everyone’s view of her. ‘Kutner, Thirteen, Wilson.’ 

Unnerved by this blatant disregard for her authority, Macy gives up and backs away. She probably figured out right from the start that she was never going to keep this group in control. Wilson views House, who stands in full combat gear gun cocked threateningly. Somehow, this look suits him. 

‘Me?’ Kutner says. ‘For real? I figured you’d think I was too nerdy or something.’

‘I know for a fact that you’re in the top ten percentile of Call of Duty players in the U.S., “PrincessLeiasHubby1980”.’

Kutner looks horrified that House has this level of knowledge about him but makes no complaint. Thirteen high fives Kutner, friendship apparently restored after yesterday’s failed trust exercise. Wilson sighs, looking at the team. House stares at him. Challenging, a little imploring. This is about as close to an apology as he’s going to get. 

He steps forward, nodding his head in weary resignation. 

Cameron, Chase, Foreman and Taub look like they’ve given up already. ‘Who made you in charge of choosing teams?’ Chase demands. 

‘I might not be your boss anymore, but I am theirs,’ House responds. 

‘You’re not mine,’ Wilson scoffs.

‘No. You just let me do what I want anyway.’

There’s very little point in arguing with that. 

‘First team to have all members hit loses,’ House announces more loudly. He points his gun at Foreman. ‘Your team, start at that end-’ he points East, ‘-our team will start the other side. First team to capture the flag from the fort wins. Other than that – there are no rules. We begin in three minutes and counting.’

‘I am not going to enjoy this,’ Foreman decides. 

They split up, walking in their teams in opposite directions. Macy has kindly left them a tub of coloured bibs- four blue bibs and four yellow. The clearing is roughly half the size of a football field, oil tankards and wooden obstacles dotted around amongst the trees to act as shields. There is an empty ravine down the middle, at the end of which is the fort – a two story wooden building, inside of which is the fabled flag. There’s a small breeze, the weather cooler today and the sky greyer, and Wilson peers up through his scratched visor to find the red flag flying in the top left window. 

Wilson pulls on a yellow bib. He can’t believe he’s doing this; he’s barely recovered from last night, and now he’s expected to shoot House’s fellows with paintballs. 

‘We need a game-plan,’ Kutner says with the seriousness of a zombie apocalypse survivor. 

Thirteen stops at the edge of the clearing, taking them behind a tankard. Kutner tries to bring them into a huddle, and House stares at him in warning not to touch him. He pulls his arm away as if in mid-yawn. They stand about and look to House, boots squelching in the muddy leaves. 

‘Here’s how this is gonna go,’ House announces. ‘We’re going to go in staggered-column formation-’

‘In English for the rest of us, please, Rambo,’ Wilson interrupts. 

House looks irritated at having his flow cut short, then carries on, using hand gestures. ‘ _Staggered?_ You know what that word means, right, sweetie? And column- you’ve seen one of those before – those big long thingies-?’

Oh, the urge to make a dick joke. 

‘We get the picture, continue,’ Thirteen prompts impatiently. 

‘Thirteen, you’ll lead. Kutner, wait about ten seconds, then go. Wilson, hang back another fifteen, twenty seconds. I’ll stay here. I’m not exactly built for obstacle courses but I am an absolutely _excellent_ shot,’ he says with great emphasis. 

‘But we can’t leave you alone, who will protect you, master,’ Wilson asks with great theatre. 

‘Goddammit, soldier, don’t think about me, think about the flag!’ House exclaims, getting into role. It makes Wilson smirk to himself. House would hate it if he knew, but he’s actually adorable when he’s amped up like this. That’s half the reason Wilson initiates so many pranks, after all. 

Kutner looks at his watch. ‘It’s almost been exactly three minutes.’

‘Go, go, go.’

A little alarmed, he does. Wilson pokes his head out around the edge of the oil tankard, Thirteen peering around him and House around her, like an episode of Scooby Doo. Kutner is running low, gun cocked, first leaping over the little ravine, ducking behind a low wooden obstacle as a shield. Looking left, then right, he leaps out again. House drops to his knee and aims. It’s so absurdly life-or-death that Wilson feels like he’s hallucinating. The Mission Impossible theme should be playing right about now. 

First, there’s the sound of Taub making the following ridiculous signal noise: ‘Ca-caw! Ca-caw!’

And then there’s a shot – Kutner is hit, a nice big pink splotch on his shoulder. 

‘God-fucking-damnit,’ House complains under his breath. ‘Thirteen, hold back a little longer.’

She does. And she turns to look at Wilson with the weary glance of a woman who is bearing House’s competitiveness with great humour. Wilson nods in acknowledgement and rolls his eyes a little. 

‘Nice job,’ House says in a chastising call over to Kutner.

He throws his hands up. ‘They’re obviously better at this than you thought they’d be.’

Kutner goes to sit at the edge of the field, perching on a log and propping his gun against it like a true, war-ravaged soldier. House remains poised at the edge of the tankard and Wilson leans against it, waiting his turn. It feels like a very high-stakes gym class. Thirteen hangs back, bouncing with anticipation, and then she heads out. There’s the sound of paint splats. Taub complaining loudly with a ‘ _I don’t even know why I bothered’_. And then the sound of Thirteen swearing. 

‘She’s been hit?’ Wilson asks, a little surprised. 

House doesn’t reply immediately, pulling the trigger with dead seriousness. Chase yelping in the distance. 

‘You’re too good at this,’ Wilson adds with some suspicion. 

‘Your turn,’ is House’s bright reply. 

Feeling very put upon, Wilson edges around the tankard and goes at a leisurely jog. His heart isn’t quite in it, not when he still feels a bit tender from last night, and not when he knows this is all now somehow riding on him. But he goes anyway, heading towards the fort – it’s difficult to run in mud and wet leaves, he notes – and the first whistle of a shot goes past his ear. 

That’s what eventually gets the blood pumping. It isn’t a real bullet, but wow, it’s enough to give him a shot of adrenaline. He ducks behind a wooden obstacle, sat in the mud and pulling his gun to his chest and panting. He peers around again – there’s Cameron, or at least he thinks that’s Cameron under the cammo gear. 

He avoids her second shot by a tiny fraction. It splatters all over the shield he’s cowering behind. 

There’s only one way out of this. Bide his time, then jump out and run to the next shield – then make a break for the fort. 

Wilson has his back against the shield, staring at the oil tankard. House is out of sight, only the end of his rifle poking out of the rusted metal. It’s incredibly unsettling. 

‘Five,’ he counts, ‘four, three, two…’

He dives out. Running low. Paint-bullets whistling around his ears and splatting against trees with a painful looking amount of force. He leaps to the ground behind the next obstacle. And he finds someone collapsing next to him – his fellow soldier, House, grabbing his leg and rolling onto his side to look around the edge of the wooden shield. 

‘What are you doing?’

‘Covering your ass,’ House hisses, eyes flitting about their surroundings. 

They both peer cautiously over the edge of the barrier. A paint splat explodes against the wood and they dip back down again. 

Wilson squeezes behind the barrier as much as possible until their shoulder to shoulder in the mud, breath steaming up his visor. He looks at House, and then House looks at him, and the closeness of this is suddenly overwhelming. There’s that light in his eyes that he gets when he’s teasing Wilson, when they’re sharing a dumb joke, when he’s playing the guitar and he catches Wilson watching. Maybe it’s happiness. How easy would it be to kiss him like this? Their helmets probably wouldn’t allow it—

 _Also, you can’t kiss your best friend, idiot,_ Wilson rebukes himself. 

Except House is staring at him like he might. Which is insane. A figment of Wilson’s imagination, surely. It’s that look on his face, one he’s seen only once or twice before – a bit like he’s been hit on the head with a shovel. And Wilson would love to stick around and figure out what it all means, but he doesn’t. He can’t cope with it. The closeness of it, the sharing of breaths. 

‘I’m going,’ he announces. Then, looking at House – Christ, they’re so close – ‘Cover me.’

He takes a deep, steadying breath and dives out from behind the barrier. 

He sprints. No point in ducking low – speed is what he needs now and he weaves between the barriers, listening to the _thwack_ of bullets hitting the fort. There’s cheering – from Thirteen and Kutner – the paint-fire becomes less heavy, he’s going to make it –

Wilson dives into the fort. It’s dark and smells damp. Taking the steps two at a time, he clambers up to the top floor and he sees the flash of red. In three strides he reaches the flag and grabs it from the window. There’s the sound of celebration and of booing.

He’s out of breath. He’s just as competitive as House is, he realises. Wilson descends the fort stairs with more slowly and ponderously than he had ascended them. He steps into the light and holds up the flag in victory, though he receives the cheers of congratulations with modesty – ducking his head and shrugging with his prize in his hand. Thirteen and Kutner are clapping. Foreman’s team smiling with bitter resignation. All of them, he notes, have been hit. House really _had_ had his back. 

House watches Wilson, and Wilson watches back. And they share a moment of silent understanding of what that watching means, the sun coming out from behind the clouds. 

There had been more planned activities for the afternoon, of course. When Macy had returned post-match and broken this to them, House had responded by chanting ‘ _ANARCHY! ANARCHY! ANARCHY!_ ’. Macy had at last slipped away into the trees, and that was the last that any of them saw of her. 

Chase and Cameron have returned from the local supermarket with food for barbequing. Since coming back from his victory at paintballing, he hasn’t seen House; presumably, holed up in his – their? – his room, reading and sulking. Something had happened between them today, something close to the feeling of hanging of a precipice. The small difference between understanding and acknowledging, of seeing and doing. They had hung at the edge of something today, eyes staring at lips, and then they had fled. 

Whilst House has probably fled to the bedroom, Wilson has found solace in House’s colleagues. Sitting on the porch and watching the mid-afternoon sun get lower in the sky with the lake mirroring it, Kutner getting the coals hot on the BBQ. These things provide a reasonable enough distraction from the truth; the feelings that are beating his heart to shit like school bullies in a playground. _Ha-ha, you have feelings for Hou-ouse! And he likes you too-oo!_

The beer does something to distract, as well. 

It’s warm. That sort of warm that’s just right – not too cloying, a small breeze keeping it meringue-light. Sitting on the porch steps with a beer in hand, Thirteen arguing with Kutner about which meat to put on the BBQ first, he should feel relaxed, but he doesn’t. If he turns around and looks up at the bedroom window, he’ll probably see House staring out of it like the ghost of a dead child in a gothic horror movie. He’s not going to give in to the urge to test if he’s right. Instead, he listens to Foreman and Cameron’s idle conversation – at least, an attempt at it, they’ve always seemed very tense around each other – and watches Chase shooing the others away from the BBQ. Taub is lying in a deckchair, stoically ignoring all of them with his eyes closed. 

The door opens behind him. He turns around quickly – House emerges from the cabin, looking resentful as if he’d been forced to come. 

‘I see you’ve deigned to join us,’ Chase calls from the BBQ, shirt sleeves rolled up and shorts on. 

‘The smell of cooking meat roused me from my slumber,’ he announces. ‘You realise you’re currently fulfilling almost every Australian stereotype, right?’

Chase shrugs, tongs in hand. 

House lingers on the porch behind Wilson who remains perched on the stairs, whilst everyone else is sat on the grass by the BBQ. It’s as if he’s deciding where he’s going to sit, like he’s stepped into a high-school cafeteria – tortured by indecision, not wanting to get it wrong. Then, he descends the stairs past Wilson, as if he wasn’t there at all, and goes to sit by the bank of the lake a good six or seven metres away. 

That was very purposefully done. If this were any other day, Wilson would roll his eyes and consider House a child. Today, it hurts. 

They discuss work. What cases they’ve got to return to the day after tomorrow, whether Cuddy will be in a good mood or a bad one. They share funny patient stories. House spends it in complete silence, following Taub’s suit and sitting far away from it all. And there’s a moment where the conversation lulls, and they look at him – giving in as they often do and wondering what Dr House is thinking about. There are times that being the object of their scrutiny gives House pleasure, gives him an excuse to play mind games and pull stupid stunts. Then there are times like this, when he doesn’t encourage it at all, giving them only freezing silence. 

The atmosphere remains up-beat. It’s curiosity alone that keeps the fellows interested in House’s mood. Other than that, they’ve learned not to care. So, they banter and chatter to themselves whilst Wilson looks at the back of House’s head and sighs quietly, inwardly.

With House… with them, there’s always arguments. Then there’s the implicit apologies, the subsequent high of knowing that nothing could ever break them. And then for Wilson there’s the aching, the need to be told that he’s loved; and then comes the knowledge that he is the most important person in House’s life, that Wilson is dedicated to him. There’s the tension, the lack of understanding – and then, inevitably, the arguments again. It makes him so tired. 

The meat is cooked. The conversation is light-hearted. Wilson is light-headed. 

When Chase distributes the food, something thaws. Wilson is a fool for doing it, but he fetches two plates of food and brings one to House, where he sits with hands propping him up and stares at the lake with a furrowed brow. His attention turns to the proffered meal, a beat of hesitation before he accepts it wordlessly. Wilson settles beside him, mirroring the way House is sitting. 

The fellows talk in the background. They eat. They sit and watch the lake ripple under the darkening sky. A bird sings overhead, and another one responds. 

After a while of saying nothing at all, Wilson takes a deep, loud breath. It signals the start of a conversation. 

‘I’m sorry I made you come here.’

He doesn’t know what else to add. He doesn’t even really know why he says it. House leans forward, wraps his arms around his drawn leg. He blinks, continues to stare at the lake in silence. 

It’s another of those moments where it looks as if House is about to say something, is struggling to formulate the words, but nothing comes. Instead, they both continue to watch the view, trees moving infinitesimally. Almost shoulder-to-shoulder. It’s only when Wilson catches the sound of his name that he turns. 

Chase, Foreman and Kutner are looking at him, Cameron and Thirteen talking in quiet voices and Taub pretending to be asleep. 

‘We were just saying that you were the man of the hour,’ Foreman explains, beer in hand. 

Wilson hesitates. ‘Oh. Right, because of the… paintball thing.’

Kutner raises his own beer. ‘To Wilson: who knew he actually _was_ a badass?’

There’s a few wry smiles shared and the fellows raise their beers, Cameron and Thirteen included. Wilson smiles back, looks at the empty paper plate on the grass beside him. Then he looks at House, and sighs. He can’t stop sighing at the moment. 

‘Man of the hour,’ House repeats quietly, with great introspection. 

Wilson doesn’t know how to respond to that. They look at each other, and they know that this conversation is only over for the time being. 

The planned evening activity on Macy’s agenda was to build a bonfire and tell stories. Obviously, that was never going happen, so instead all eight of them have retired to the living room, the evening insects drawn to the porch lights and making it impossible to enjoy it outside. The room is scattered with them, most sprawled on the sofas and Thirteen sitting on the floor by the unlit fireplace. House is sat in the corner, plucking on a guitar that had been mounted on the wall. Wilson notes that House has always sat apart from groups, even in the conference room; either lurking in the kitchen, standing at the board, or sat on the opposite end of the table. Sitting at the desk in the far corner. 

Now, he watches from beneath a low brow as the rest of them partake in a game of truth-or-dare.

Naturally, House is in no way the type to reveal anything personal about himself to his team, and so he sits out and observes like a wildlife photographer. On the other hand, Wilson has been at the receiving end of some of his pranks and reckless demonstrations. Dares are not a problem for House. He just doesn’t want to do it _for_ anyone. 

As it turns out, only four of them are playing. Taub and Foreman also watch, unwilling to make fools of themselves. Cameron seems equally happy to simply stick around for the show. 

Wilson, meanwhile, only needs two beers before he forgets what it means to be sensible. He’s the one who walked home in his boxer shorts three years ago after a particularly messy night out with House (he still doesn’t know where his trousers went) and now, he’s drawn in by the boyish urge to impress House by doing something daring. 

‘Chase,’ Kutner points. ‘Truth or dare.’

‘Dare.’

It’s the third in a row. So far he’s downed a shot of tabasco and spoken entirely in rhyme for the  
past five minutes. At least he’s not in Thirteen’s position, though, who elected to jump into the lake over divulging a truth; she’s just returned after getting into a change of clothes, and her hair is towel-dried and messy. 

‘OK,’ Kutner thinks, propping his chin on his knee. ‘I dare you… to take off a piece of clothing every  
time you choose dare instead of truth.’

Chase kicks off a shoe, wiggles his toes and stares at Kutner with challenge. ‘Best you can do?’

‘You won’t feel so smug when you’re shirtless and realise you have to tell the truth. Unless you want  
your boss to see you in your underwear.’

‘Not my boss anymore.’

‘Whatever. Wilson.’

He winces, finishing his sip of beer. He’s already admitted that he plays Dance Dance Revolution on the weekends because a patient gave it to him as a gift. It would be easier to go with a dare. ‘Dare.’

Chase hums. ‘Nah.’

‘That’s not… how this work. I mean, I’m not _twelve_ anymore, but I’m pretty sure the rules of truth-and-dare haven’t changed since then. We may have to consult the scout’s guidebook.’

He leans back into the sofa and views Wilson in that smug way that he has. He’s obviously drunk whilst the rest of them are just tipsy. ‘Why did you come here? There. Take it or leave it.’

And _this_ is precisely why the others have stayed, despite not playing. Taub lowers his magazine and measures Wilson for his reaction. Foreman does the same, putting his phone down. The sound of the guitar continues, but he can feel House watching. Well, fuck. Wilson had forgotten that Chase can be an ass sometimes. 

‘Well if the options are take it or leave it…’ Wilson says.

‘It’s a simple question,’ Foreman says. 

‘Hey. Come on,’ Thirteen gently prods Foreman with her foot.

‘No. You’re right. You’re right,’ Wilson admits, trying not to sound hysterical. ‘I came because Cuddy said I should go. Plus, House and I are friends… I thought it might be fun.’

‘Bullshit.’

At last, House says his piece. Wilson doesn’t even turn around in his seat, staring ahead instead. Cameron gives Chase a long, chastising look – who appears sheepish, probably only now realising that he’s overstepped the line. 

‘I’m not biting,’ Wilson calls.

The guitar playing stops. ‘You’re _lying_. You’ve been lying all weekend.’

‘It’s – the truth!’ he laughs, definitely a bit hysterical, now. _Not here. Not with all these people, please._ ‘Why would I be lying about this? It’s embarrassing enough to admit that I came here because I wanted to hang out with you! What is more humiliating than choosing to hang out with my misanthropic asshole of friend instead of sitting alone in my hotel room, because I’m technically homeless? It’s so pathetic – I’m not even a _part_ of this team! My life is so miserable I’ve come on a team-building trip with all of you! No offence.’

‘None taken,’ says Kutner. 

He leans his elbow on the sofa arm and hides his face in his hand. ‘There. I’ve told the truth. The whole embarrassing truth. Now back off.’

House doesn’t even give him a second to recover. ‘You think I can’t tell when you’re hiding something from me?’

‘So stalk me!’ Wilson explodes, finally turning to look at him. He’s crouched over the guitar, eying Wilson like a cat. ‘If you think I’m hiding something, get a private investigator and have me followed around – break into my hotel and plant a CCTV in my room – or something equally insane! Because that’s what you do, isn’t it? Or better yet, just _ask me_ – talk to me like an adult human, like a real friend. Not like this. Had it occurred to you that maybe I’m actually going _through_ something?’

Quiet settles like a blanket, heavy and suffocating. The reality of this conversation doesn’t hit him, not yet. The fact that they’re having this argument so openly. All he feels is the hammering of his heartbeat. Everyone is staring, Thirteen watching House closely with beer bottle poised at her lips. 

Eventually, House stands, propping the guitar against the wall. Without another word he stalks out of the living room and into the kitchen. Wilson listens to the sound of beer bottles, of bottle caps being popped open.

He stands up and follows. 

Wilson closes the kitchen door, stares at the back of House’s head. The sound of a bottle slamming against the counter, half of it gone already. 

‘What the _hell was that?_ ’ 

There’s no immediate response. House just leans against the kitchen island, hands splayed. 

‘You know, I should be used to you being a jackass to me in front of people. And yet, I still manage to convince myself that you’ve gained a bit of humanity – after every argument, I forgive you, and I just, forget that you were awful in the first place and –’

‘Oh come _on_ ,’ House argues, turning around, ‘you act high and mighty as if you don’t provoke situations like this.’

‘ _Provoke?_ ’

‘You brought me here. _You_ made get involved in all the party games. You putting your nose in my business is what’s caused this-'

‘Caused what?’ Wilson scoffs. He gesticulates, trying to find the answer. ‘What’s actually happening here? Can you tell me what this argument even about? Is it that you really think I don’t want to be here with you?’

House balks, staring at him. One hand on the kitchen counter. Then – ‘Why did you lie to Tritter?’

The question hits Wilson over the head. ‘What?’

‘You lied to a cop to keep me out of jail,’ House yells, and Wilson doesn’t know whether it’s because he’s angry or trying to stop his voice from shaking. ‘Why?’

‘Why did you stay here?’ Wilson pushes, ignoring him. ‘I brought you here, and you stayed. Why did you stay?’

There’s a pause, then an exhale, not quite a laugh. ‘And you think _I_ deflect-’

Wilson steps closer. House falters, surprised. 

House holds his ground, face setting into something guarded as he looks down at Wilson. ‘I asked first.’

‘I’m not-’

‘It’s a simple question.’

House stares. Not a glare, not a gaze – something strange and in between. And Wilson feels the moment behind his back, pushing him forward with inevitable hands. 

‘You want to know why I came?’ Wilson demands, throat sore. ‘You really want to know?’

There is no affirmative; House suddenly looks afraid for the answer. 

Wilson swallows. Flexes his fingers.

‘Screw it,’ he says. 

Wilson steps forwards and grabs fistfuls of his t-shirt. He pauses, enough time to see House’s eyes widen, and pulls him down for a kiss. 

There’s the sound of some response trapped in his throat as Wilson kisses him. He’s still, receiving the lips against his in shock. And then he kisses back. And then, his hands are on his arms. 

Wilson pulls away – steps back, palms against House’s chest. ‘Honest enough for you?’ he challenges. 

Has there ever been a time that House has looked this taken aback? Wilson can’t recall; over a decade of practical jokes and he’d never been rewarded with an expression like this. And then House makes a strange sigh, a frustrated exhale with his eyes cast to the sky – the face he makes when he’s had a diagnosis sitting in front of him the whole time, but has been too preoccupied to see it until now. 

‘I can’t believe I missed it,’ House mutters through a bitter smile. 

It makes something in him falter, panic until he’s still and speechless. Had he misunderstood that look today? Those pregnant silences? Is this just another mystery solved for him? House’s hands are still on his arms. He draws his own hands away, back down to his sides, something angry and hurt closing his throat and making him look away. 

‘Well?’ he demands.

House looks at him, wry disbelief slipping away into something more earnest. ‘Well what?’

‘I need to know.’ He almost steps out of his grasp, something compulsive and flighty. ‘I need you to tell me you want me, too.’

His eyes scan Wilson’s face. A look that’s dismantling and frighteningly raw. ‘I’ve always wanted you.’

Those words hang between them for a long moment. Fifteen years, hanging in one moment. And Wilson wishes he had a response for that, some way to put into words the way he feels – like some parallel life has knocked his real one out of the way. 

Instead of wasting time with words, he kisses him again. Or did House move to kiss him first? Who is the enabler, here? He doesn’t know. They’re kissing like it’s an argument, angry noises passed between their lips through gasps, hands gripping necks and hair, Wilson wrapping his arms around him and pulling him close. Open-mouthed kisses that are loud with breaths and stubble scratching lips. And then all at once Wilson gives in, the urge to make it a contest disappearing. He hangs off House and goes languid, because he’s spent all these years not kissing him and he’s drunk off this one hit. The needy, addicted noises he’s making would be totally mortifying if he wasn’t feeling so high, so heady from this surreal thing – this – him, kissing _House_ –

House’s hand between his shoulder blades. Breath rasping. He’s able to make House sound like that. The dizzy knowledge of that—

Wilson pushes himagainst the edge of the kitchen counter, legs tangled but the look in House’s eyes undone. And then kissing with his hands cupping House’s jaw, curls of hair at the tips of his fingers. 

He’s distantly aware of the kitchen door opening and the sound of a yelp, before it’s closed abruptly again. 

Wison draws away a little, breathing fast and heavy. House, peering blearily over his shoulder, then back at him.

‘Who did we just traumatise?’ Wilson asks. 

‘Didn’t see.’ He scoffs. ‘What, did their mother never teach them to knock before entering a kitchen?’

That makes him laugh. Rest his forehead against House’s shoulder. 'Shit.'

‘We should go upstairs.’

Wilson can’t disagree with that. 

Of course, the moment Wilson opens the door, he gets a good view of their colleagues looking at them from the living room. _Looking_ at them, brows raised and smothered laughter. And that makes him go completely speechless with embarrassment; what are you meant to say when one of your colleagues has walked in on you making out, and now they're all witnessing you creeping up to the bedroom? 

He gives an awkward, pursed-lipped smile and slips away, framing his face with his hand as if hiding will suddenly make them forget what they’ve seen. 

House, however— ‘We’re going to play Mario Kart,’ he jokes. ‘Wilson sucks at it. Makes lots of loud, frustrated noises. In case you’re wondering what the sex noises are for.’

Wilson takes the stairs two at a time, just to spite House. Or perhaps because he’s running away from the rest of their stares. Either way, he’s stood in the bedroom for a minute or two before House catches up with him.

House closes the door and glares at him. 

‘Oh don’t look at me like that,’ Wilson retorts without bite. ‘That was totally humiliating. You couldn’t have just said nothing.’

House blinks and his glare breaks. Wilson feels it too, an urge to laugh. They do. 

It feels like that moment when the clouds finally break; when the humidity that’s hung in the air is split with cool rain. His feet take him towards House, mindless. Perhaps a little shy. House sees it, sees him; he huffs a quiet, affectionate laugh. Leans his cane against the wall and turns to give Wilson his full attention. 

The awareness of what’s happening is almost too much. It makes his steps towards House small, his breath stutter. Eyes on the floor between them. House’s hands find his arms again, rise along his biceps to his shoulders. A thumb running along his jaw and tilting his chin gently. 

Hesitant, this time. Wilson steps closer hesitantly, not yet kissing, his eyes open and House’s, too. Moving slowly, to make sure he can keep track of every second, make sure it doesn’t disappear in a dreamlike blur. When he convinces himself that this is real—

_This is really happening._

-he rests his hand against House’s cheek, feeling the way his stubble scratches his finger-tips. Looking over the landscape of his face, cheekbones and crows-feet. Where stubble turns into salt and pepper hair, where his frown relaxes, no crease between his brow. Down his neck, just under his ear, a gunshot scar. Collarbone under the hem of a blue shirt. This is a man he has known for a long time, long enough to remember when he didn’t have white flecks in his beard, when he used to shave, even. He remembers when there were fewer frown lines on his face. He doesn’t remember ever seeing him look at him like this – lips parted, eyes dancing over his face. Close enough to see the way his irises turn from daytime blue to night-time navy. 

The thumb and forefinger holding his chin tilt Wilson in for a kiss. He almost doesn’t close his eyes – the way House is looking at him, has House ever looked like that? – but he does when he feels their lips graze. Because he remembers what it’s like to have his stubble make his face raw, and he wants to be blind when he feels it. This isn’t the desperate, gasping thing before; this is slow, committing to memory. Lips brushing. 

They stop and share breaths as House’s hands run down his waist, at the hem of his sweatshirt. Lips hovering over each other as his fingers find the skin of his hips. His fingers are rough from playing guitar. Wilson fingers unbutton House’s shirt, slowly. Pushing it off his shoulders. Finds the hem of House’s t-shirt underneath, pulls it off. Feels the palms of his hands against the small of his back, then pushing up Wilson's sweatshirt and t-shirt in one go. 

It’s surreal. Standing here, inches away and taking House’s clothes off. House taking _his_ clothes off. It makes them pause, before their lips meet again. 

Belt buckles and zips, fingers fumbling at clothes. House falling back onto the bed, sitting on the edge and looking up at Wilson like he’s just remembered what they’re doing. And Wilson straddles him, hands on his shoulders and the back of his neck. House’s hands on his hips. 

He pulls him close and the friction is good. It’s _good_. His breath falls out of his mouth and his forehead falls against House’s. And House is still. Completely still, hands resting gently on his hips but not moving. Wilson looks at him, sees him processing; trying to digest what’s happening. 

Wilson sits in his lap, looks at him carefully. ‘OK?’ 

‘When you said there was a bear outside the other night,’ House starts. Then he sees the mischief in his eyes. ‘Was that just code for you wanting to sleep with me?’

Wilson spends a second speechless. And then he laughs – a kind of laughter that breaks tension and makes everything feel normal again. House smirks up at him, finds Wilson’s neck and kisses. 

‘Yeah,’ he admits, lips against House’s temple. ‘I’m pretty sure it was.’

House grumbles, a low, chesty noise beside Wilson’s ear that makes his eyes fall shut. ‘Manipulative bitch. Playing games.’

‘I don’t even think it was intentional,’ Wilson laughs. House’s hands rising along his back. ‘I didn’t exactly plan for a bear to turn up… not a practical joke…’

He makes that grumble again, lips on his neck – _fuck_. There’s something about that sound that makes him hum in response, makes him roll his hips. And House makes a noise that sounds like it was meant to be ‘God’ but comes out as _gah_. 

Wilson rocks into him again – House’s hands on his lower back – his lips on the curve between his neck and shoulder – Wilson’s face buried in House’s hair. Hands moving with his hips. Breaths deep and shuddering.

This is the man he’s known for over a decade. He loves him and he sighs beside his ear, arms around House’s neck and pulling him in, heart suddenly breaking that they’re only just doing this now. And the friction of his underwear, of House’s erection against his – the hands pulling him close into his body- 

‘House,’ he whispers into his hair. 

He rocks steadily. He tries to keep it steady but he can feel the need for more pulling inside of him, gravity bringing it all together in one dense spot. 

The lips on his neck – it turns from kiss to bite, teeth and tongue, so that Wilson’s grasp in his hair goes tighter and the sighs turn to moans. The sound of House swallowing loudly, exhaling hotbreaths against Wilson’s skin. Fingers digging into the dimples of his back – moving down to grab his ass. He juts his hips urgently, arms hooked under House’s and holding onto his shoulders, cheek to cheek. 

‘Don’t suppose you brought anything resembling lube,’ Wilson pants into House’s ear. 

House swallows again, air rushing out. It tickles the back of Wilson’s neck. Then he pulls away, and he finds House staring up at him, eyes glassy and lips parted. Looking dumbstruck enough that Wilson feels a jolt of vindication and arousal. 

‘No,’ House admits. ‘Could always ask around.’

Wilson doesn’t even deign to respond to that. Instead he huffs, looking at the way House’s lips are slicked and pink. Bends down to kiss him and—

‘Mmphh. Mm- Wilson-’

He backs away. ‘What?’

The way he’s mindlessly rocking against him makes House silent, mouth hanging open and eyes rolling back until they close. God, that face. Wilson wants to stare at that face forever. But there’s a question he needs answered.

He pats House on the shoulder, a sound sticky with sweat. ‘Hey, come back. What is it?’

‘Somewhere in my weekend bag,’ he blinks his eyes open, exhales. Wilson isn’t exactly making this easy for House, he’s still grinding against him. ‘In the inside pocket. I think.’

Wilson nods, business-like, bends down to kiss him. Something small and chaste before he un-straddles himself and goes on his expedition. House’s weekend bag is on the chair by the windowsill, folded clothes inside. He kneels beside it and fumbles around without ruining the neat arrangement, dipping in his hand blindly. He finds a string of condoms and throws them onto the floor. Getting frustrated now, he prises open the inside pocket and finds – thank the Lord – a little bottle. 

Standing up and turning around, he finds House watching him. Peering up at him from under a low brow, naked all except for boxer briefs. And he supposes he shouldn’t feel jealous that House has had lube and condoms in his weekend bag for probably a variety of people other than him – hook ups during work conferences, exes – but he does, and it makes him throw the bottle on the bed, shucking off his underwear and holding eye contact. House looks surprised, pleasantly, and accepts Wilson’s rough kiss without complaint. 

Hands gripping him. Wilson pushing him against the mattress, kisses deep and possessive, and House groans into his mouth. How long has House wanted him? Has he fantasized about this before? 

Wilson hasn’t. It makes all of it new, unfamiliar but _absolutely_ familiar – the way House nips playfully at his earlobe, the way he makes him laugh, even when he’s rolling them over and pinning Wilson to the bed. Hands and fingers that he knows, on the inside of his thighs, inside him. Lips that he knows, whispering against his skin. Eyes that he knows, keen and watching, as they always are. Watching the way Wilson squeezes his eyes shut and presses his head back into the pillow and says—

‘Oh, God-’

Pulling him closer. Wilson pulls him closer, guiding House inside him with a hand between them and House chokes. Wilson panting into his mouth. Biting his lip and rolling with his slow rhythm. Breaths stuttering. Eye contact. Wilson pulling him into a kiss. There’s something incredibly seductive about being watched, but there’s something nice about kissing him, too, and he’s torn between both options. 

Rolling House onto his back again, because, hey, maybe he wants a better view of him. And he’s decided that he likes being kissed _and_ being watched. 

- _He’d spy on me through the window of my office. Through the blinds in his conference room, too. He likes looking at me. My God, this is really happening. I’m screwing House-_

Any opportunity to overthink disappears when he moves, hand clutching the headboard. 

House gasps. ‘Fuck-’ 

Hands gripping his thighs, tight enough to bruise and Wilson hisses. He moves, hard and steady. The look on House’s face completely wrecked, the pinch in his brow like he’s in pain. It’s good. It’s _good_. Toe-curling, moaning shamelessly good. Pornographic noises kind of good, bed creaking good. That’s not something he’s ever experienced before, that’s a feeling he’s always chased but never had. It can’t just be because it’s House – it can’t just be because this has built up over years, years of looking at each other, sharing space and not touching—?

Blue eyes hooded, watching him. Hands up his thighs, on his hips, up his stomach. And he hangs his head back, taking deep breaths, deep enough that all the oxygen makes him dizzy. And House is sitting up to meet him, shaking hands on his back, face buried in Wilson’s shoulder and making noises – fuck, the noises he’s making – almost a whimper – something so vulnerable and needy that—

‘House-’

A kiss on his collarbone. Wilson kissing the sweat on House’s forehead. House looking up at him with something open. 

A hand finds Wilson between them and it makes him cry out in a sob. Stars in his eyes and the breath yanked out of him—

And then House breaks. A silent convulsion that starts with fingers digging into Wilson’s back and ends with an closed-eyed gasp to the ceiling. 

They stay there for a little while. Wilson catching his breath, arms wrapped around House’s neck. House’s hands resting carefully on his legs. Forehead against forehead. And then, smacking him gently on his thighs, House prompts Wilson to shift. They crash against the bed. 

The ceiling is dark. The room is dark, Wilson realises. 

House breathes out slowly. ‘I don’t “bond” with all my colleagues like that, you know.’

Wilson doesn’t have the energy to generate a comeback. He smacks him playfully on the chest. 

They lie side by side on the top of the sheets until it gets uncomfortably cold. Wilson is the first to get under the covers, and House follows suit, lying beside him. He raises an arm for House to prop his head on his chest. After what looks like some internal debate, he does, arm slung across him. Wilson traces a finger along his bicep. It’s so thoughtless, he could almost think that he’s been doing it for years. 

‘I think I’ve wanted to do that for a lot longer than I realised,’ he says after a while. 

House doesn’t say anything. The cabin is quiet. Perhaps the others went to bed. 

‘I think we’ve traumatised them for life, now,’ Wilson adds. 

‘They’ve seen and heard worse,’ House replies.

'If you say so.'

There’s a longer stretch of quiet. Wilson senses that House is unravelling tonight’s events, unpicking it and finding something to criticise. 

Eventually, House sighs. It’s not a happy sound. 

‘I’m in love with you,’ he says. 

And if it’s possible, hearing that is far sweeter than anything else that has happened today. Wilson has needed to hear that since the beginning. 

‘OK,’ Wilson says, processing. ‘Good to know the feelings are mutual.’ Then, ‘In… case there’s any miscommunication, here, that means I love you too.’

‘I got that,’ House retorts. There’s no bite to it.

The sad sighing sounds stop. Instead, House begins to trace tickling circles on Wilsons’ ribcage. Wilson supposes he wasn’t the only one who needed to hear it. 

A horrible realisation suddenly hits him. ‘Oh God.’

House tilts his head and peers up at him. 

‘Cuddy is going to have a field day,’ he clarifies. ‘Think of all the blackmail opportunities.’

‘Cuddy can’t touch us,’ House responds. ‘We’re both gay – in, some shape or form. You’re Jewish. I’m disabled. We’re like a diversity campaign in one couple. We could sue her for discrimination if she so much as breathes in our direction.’

Wilson looks down at the waves of greying hair. ‘You’re demented.’

‘You love it.’

He doesn’t deny it. He strokes his arm, eyes falling closed. House comfortingly heavy against his chest. Memories of paintball and kisses.

It’s been a weird day.

‘You still haven’t punished me… for bringing you here,’ Wilson says, before he can fall asleep. ‘I’m free tomorrow morning, you know. If you haven’t got anything else planned.’

There’s a quiet laugh – one that Wilson can’t hear but can feel in the way House’s breath blossoms against his skin, the way his body shakes a little. Wilson falls asleep with a light kiss on his chest.


	4. Furniture Shopping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remember in s6 when House makes Wilson furnish their apartment with something HE chose? Specifically? To help him realise that he has a personality beyond his relationships????? Do any of you every just cry????????????
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has read along as I've written this, it's been SO fun and I hope you like this final fluffy chapter of fluff.

The sun is coming up on their last day. A purple-blue sunrise with flecks of pink tinging the tops of the trees. House drags a fold-up chair to the end of the pier and watches. Elbows on his knees, leaning forward. The lake rippling between the boards of the pier, green and clear and making happy, lapping noises. The coffee in his mug has gone cold. House holds it between his hands anyway, looking up again at the way the pink burns the sky. 

He hears the footsteps long before he turns and he knows immediately that it’s Wilson from his gait. Something about spying on him through the shutters of his office for over a decade makes him qualified to know exactly how Wilson’s footsteps sound. 

“Couldn’t sleep,” House starts. 

Wilson’s footsteps stop behind him, but he keeps his focus on the forest line, on the bright mirror reflection of the lake. In his peripheral, Wilson kicks out a fold-up chair and props it beside him, settling into it with a satisfied sigh. 

For a long while, neither one of them speaks. Moments like this are rare, moments of silence and simply existing. House doesn’t have moments like this with other people, never has – he’s never felt comfortable enough for silence. But it’s not the same with Wilson, not the same at all. He shares more with Wilson in this stretch of not-speaking than he’s shared with anyone before. Not-speaking, punctuated with quiet breathing and bird chirrups and whispering water. Hills and forests and the world in front of them. Alone, together. 

“When we were stationed in Japan.” House pauses, lets out a long breath through his nostrils. “We lived on a base in Okinawa. It’s a huge reserve over there… covered in fast-food chains now. But back then it was pretty much just beaches and mountains.”

Wilson listens, as if he knows that House is about to impart something vital. If he’s honest, he doesn’t know where he’s going with this. This place just reminds him of the feeling he had; that fresh feeling. 

“I used to go on hikes, on weekends and holidays. Dad would be busy, mom wasn’t interested, so I’d go solo. At first, I’d go with a friend from school. He had an accident…”

“I remember,” Wilson nods. “You took him to the local hospital—”

“And I had a life-changing epiphany about wanting to be a doctor, yeah,” he waves his hand dismissively. “That’s not the story I’m telling.” Then he pauses, hands tight around the mug. “I don’t know what story I’m telling.”

They fall quiet for another beat. Their eyes look ahead. Wilson sits back in his chair, legs stretched out. House mimics him, back aching from leaning forward for so long. Puts the mug down on the floor. 

It’s a while before he finds words. They come to him in a deep breath, and Wilson turns to watch him speak. “After that, he didn’t want to come with me again. Something about, being scared of dying in a fall, or something stupid and totally unfounded like that. Anyway. I’d go on hikes alone, which my mother didn’t know about. She would have made me stay home if she’d known I was by myself. I knew it was dangerous, climbing mountains and trekking through forests by myself, especially after what happened, but…”

Dangerous situations have always sort of attracted him, he realises: even when he was young. Risk-taking. By the way Wilson watches him, completely still, he imagines the same thought is going through his head. And yet, if he had the chance, he’d hike up that hill again now; anything to feel like he had power back in his leg again, the exhilaration and the burn.

“It wasn’t anything like this,” House continues, nodding to their surroundings, peering from below a low brow. “It was wilder. More humid. And there was this one lookout – if you reached it, you could see the ocean from all sides. You could literally turn in a circle and see the edge of the island at every angle. And I would be totally alone, there. Not lonely, but alone, where no one else could reach me. And I remember thinking…” House falters. He rubs his leg. “I remember thinking I wanted to spend the rest of my life like that.”

He thinks that’s the end of it. A sad story of a boy finding freedom and safety in solitude. But then he turns his eyes away from the burning pink sunrise and looks at Wilson, who is examining him. Looking like he’s found something precious and doesn’t know whether he’s about to be told to put it back where he found it. Trying not to get his hopes up. 

House isn’t sure how to say it without it sounding insincere. He tells himself that they aren’t they type of people to get sentimental, to tell each other their feelings outright – even if every long look they’ve shared and every grand gesture of dedication they’ve demonstrated proves the contrary. 

Eventually, he doesn’t have a choice; sentimental is what they’re getting, because he can feel his eyes stinging. And Wilson looks back, lips parted. 

“It wasn’t anything like this place,” House says, forcing his voice low. He blinks, looks at his hands. “It isn’t the same here.”

The breath that Wilson makes is rushed. The purest form of relief House has ever heard. A hand reaches from Wilson’s chair to House’s, and he takes it. It feels less of a romantic gesture and more like a life-ring thrown out in a storm, and that’s why he takes it without any joke or thinly veiled deflection. 

Instead House hangs on, neither alone nor lonely. 

***

“This one’s kinda nice.”

Wilson stands with his back to House, hands on his hips and staring at a sofa. It’s a pose he uses when he feels the need to assert authority. It’s possible that he’s threatened. 

To be fair, it is a very threatening sofa. Bright red. If a bull saw it, it’d probably tear it to pieces instead of staring at it and wincing with hands on hips.

House takes his place beside Wilson. They’ve gone through this whole furniture store, and Wilson still has no idea what he wants. For the first half hour it had been fun – messing around on spinning chairs and trying to figure out how some of the more _haute couture_ pieces actually worked. Now, though, he feels like he’s slowly losing his mind. This bright red monstrosity is the last straw.

House shoots him a despairing look. 

“What!” he demands. “It’s… it’s functional. And you could spill red wine on it, and no one would know.”

“If your main criteria for sofa shopping is to have one that survives wear and tear, we may as well just buy a nicer one and keep the plastic on.”

Wilson blinks, a little shocked. “Oh, God. My grandma used to do that. It’d squeak every time you sat on it.”

“So, Mr. Neurosis. This sofa is your choice?”

He opens his mouth, but no words come out. “Um. I… guess?” he says eventually, unconvinced. “But you clearly hate it.”

“That’s not the point!” House finally exclaims. “I agreed to come furniture shopping with you on the condition that you pick _one_ thing you like. Not because I actually want to be here.”

“Sometimes you make me so warm and fuzzy inside.” Wilson folds his arms and casts him a reprimanding side-glance. "It's _our_ apartment. We should furnish it together."

They view the sofa, tilting their heads in unison like two dogs.

“If you don’t like it, just say,” Wilson says.

House rolls his eyes so hard it hurts. He sighs with a great amount of theatre, just to get him through this hair-pulling frustration of Wilson’s indecisiveness. “I am _not choosing_ for you. You can’t keep letting other people define you—”

“I’m! Not letting you _define_ me – don’t you think that’s a little dramatic?”

None of the other shoppers or employees look. House supposes that spousal arguments in the furniture store are fairly common. “You don’t know how to have a personality.”

Wilson nods, not even remotely taken aback by this. “Thank you, _sweetie_.”

“You don’t know how to exist outside of a relationship, so you don’t even know what you want. Everything is about making the other person happy so _you_ can feel secure. Since that’s bullshit I am hereby advising you to forget about what I want and make some sort of decision before I go literally insane.”

“But House, how am I meant to forget about you when you’re making this whole experience so delightful?”

“I mean – forget about me in the couple sense. If we were doing this before we started seeing each other, it wouldn’t be a problem – if we were just two guys who were friends you wouldn’t be absorbing my personality so you could choose a goddamn sofa.”

Wilson looks at him resentfully. Then he rubs his forehead, free hand in pocket. “Fine. Fine! Fine.”

They walk through the vast shop, a forest of sofas and beyond that the fabled land of kitchen tables. Wilson’s arms swing lazily as he walks, and his shoulders have slumped. House hasn’t figured out yet whether that means he’s given up, or if he’s finally relaxing.

“So,” House begins. He punches Wilson on the arm. “My fellow straight friend. Watch the game last night?”

“Paha – so we really _are_ pretending that we haven’t been sleeping with each other for two months?”

"If it'll get you to make a decision."

House leads him down a conversation about monster trucks and his recent case. By the time they’ve done a loop of the first aisle of sofas, Wilson is talking like he’s forgotten why they’re there, shrugging and gesticulating and relaxing with every futon they pass. The music playing in the store is that nondescript kind of tune that sounds like its mimicking at least three bands and failing. 

“—which is why I thought it was paraneoplastic syndrome. But the second test came back negative, so I figured—”

“The shape of this one is interesting.”

Wilson stalls at House’s interruption, peers around him and looks at where his cane is pointed at a corner sofa.

“No. It would be fine if it weren’t for the fact that you would steal the corner part so you can stretch your legs. If I even tried sitting there you’d probably kick me out of the flat.”

All he does in response is nod. Drawing too much attention to Wilson’s sudden decision-making skills could be dangerous. “So, ist wasn’t paraneoplastic.”

“Uh- yeah, no. I figured—”

Wilson continues in the same vein, asking for House’s opinion on the case, eyes vaguely wandering over the various sofas. By the time the story seems to have come to an end and House prompts him to muse about what they might have for dinner that night, he’s stopped by a grey sofa and is folding his arms critically. 

“You like the colour,” House ventures, eyes cast over at him. 

“I like that it just looks like a normal sofa,” Wilson says with sudden passion. “I mean, good Lord, eighty percent of the couches in this place look like they couldn’t belong in an actual, normal person’s home. They’re either… bright blue, or - have flowers all over them, or they’re huge and shaped weirdly. At least this one looks like you could literally just sit on it and be comfortable.”

House nods slowly, measuring him. Wilson seems surprised by his outburst. 

“Where the hell did that come from,” he muses.

“I unlocked your repressed feelings on furniture,” House explains. 

He collapses onto the sofa and leans an elbow on the arm. Wilson lets himself fall into the space next to him. He bounces a little experimentally. Lays his arms along the back of it, one behind House’s shoulders. 

“This is…”

House waits for it. “Come on, Jimmy. I know you can do it.”

Wilson looks into the distance, like he’s thinking, face still. He’s always been very still when he’s thoughtful. And then he turns, lying back on the sofa so his head is on the arm and his legs are in House’s lap. House plays the drums on Wilson’s shins and continues to wait.

“I like this one.” Wilson stares at the ceiling, then tilts his chin to his chest so he can look at House. “I like this one.”

What a fucking relief. “Too bad, I don’t like it.”

Wilson breaks out in a smile, head tipping back as he laughs. 

***

They’re peacefully watching a movie on their new sofa, apartment still filled with cardboard boxes, when Wilson says it. 

“We’ve known each other for what… almost fifteen years now?”

House looks over at where Wilson is leaning against his side. 

“I’ve seen your best and your worst… we’ve been through a lot together, wouldn’t you say?”

“I already hate where this is going,” House replies. 

“I was just thinking,” Wilson says with that voice that usually implies he’s about to be a total bitch. Like steal his guitar and hold it hostage. Like saw his cane in half. “I know a lot of your dirty secrets, but there’s… _one_ thing I don’t know.”

Wilson looks at him, pauses for effect, wearing a Bond villain smirk. 

“Stop screwing around and just say it.”

“I don’t know if you’re ticklish.”

Hm. How to get out of this one, then? House returns his attention back to the TV and remarks, coolly, “Such knowledge comes with great risk.”

“That means you’re ticklish. It does, doesn’t it?”

House turns slowly and looks at the man he has foolishly chosen to love. “Are you sure you want to know? You may find yourself being kicked in the testicles.”

It’s too late. Wilson has that look in his eye. And before House can think about getting up and making his escape, Wilson is digging his hands into his sides and under his arms. 

“Dear God, are you trying to tickle me or give me a lumbar puncture?” 

Wilson gives more focus to the task, changing tactic and going for House’s stomach. 

Fuck. 

It’s instinct – he curls up like an armadillo and stops breathing, anything to keep Wilson from knowing that his evil plan is working. But he doesn’t give up, the bastard has always been as stubborn as House, so he follows him to where he’s now balled up on his side on the sofa, tickling down his sides and under his t-shirt. And when he realises he can’t hold his breath for any longer, it bursts out in laugh. 

Humiliating. 

“Stop, stop—"

Wilson responds with a villainous cackle. 

On that fateful day, the tickle fights revealed the unfortunate truth: House is very ticklish. There is a silver lining, however – Wilson is, too. 

***

House is half asleep. There’s some mindless Sunday afternoon show on TV and Wilson is reading, book resting against House’s ankles. Occasionally, he’ll wiggle his toes and shuffle around just to jostle his book, but it doesn’t seem to annoy him. Wilson will wait for House to pretend to get comfortable again before propping his book against his legs. Somewhere on the coffee table, his mug has gone cold. He’s too relaxed to care. 

It’s a shame that the doorbell rings. He winces his eyes open, and refuses to move his legs out of the way. Wilson sighs, picks them up and drops them unceremoniously on the sofa so he can answer the door. House looks at the shaft of light that’s cast across the high ceiling of their new apartment. 

“Hi.”

“Sign here.”

There’s the scratch of a pen. Then, “Wait, are you the furniture store?”

“Yup.”

“This… looks. I mean, I don’t remember ordering anything that would be small enough for a box.”

A pause. “Danish pine bookshelves?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s it, buddy. Don’t like it, call the store and ask for a refund.”

There’s a longer pause, now, followed by the sound of receding footsteps. Wilson sighs. A dragging noise as something’s shoved into the flat and propped against the wall, then the door closing. 

“You idiot,” House says with his eyes closed. 

“You were with me! It didn’t say anything about being flatpack.”

“I’m never letting you choose anything again.”

“You like the sofa,” Wilson complains.

He’s right. “I don’t like _you_.”

House doesn’t move. Instead, he lies on his back on said sofa and listens to the sounds of Wilson grabbing a pair of scissors, opening the cardboard box and unpacking it, making depressed little sighs as he removes all the pieces. He doesn’t move when Wilson asks him to help, and he doesn’t move when he hears sad whimpers, accompanied by the rustle of instruction booklets. 

He does, however, turn around when he hears—

“God _fucking_ damnit, I’m going to set this fucking bookcase on fire and burn whoever designed it on the stake.”

Sitting up and peering over the sofa, eyeing Wilson who is cross-legged on the floor in his sweatpants and one of House’s old t-shirts. He’s holding a plank of wood, probably the stake he was threatening to kill with. 

“I’ve been pranking you wrong all this time,” House realises. “I could have just been forcing you to build flatpack furniture instead.”

“You’re about to hear a lot more expletives if you don’t get your ass over here and help me.”

At last, he acquiesces. House slides down the nearest wall, stretches out his legs, holds out a hand for the instructions. He could remind Wilson that he’s been to medical school and now runs one of the top oncology departments in the country, but that seems a bit cheap, even for him. Instead, with growing amusement, he compares the image in the instructions with what Wilson has begun to construct in front of him. 

“If I let you build the rest of this bookshelf,” he says, “you’ll kill someone when it inevitably falls apart on top of one of us.”

“The instructions are unclear.” Wilson rubs his face. “The screws in bag two look almost identical to the screws in bag one, and the bags are only numbered in the instructions, not on the bags themselves, so—"

“Gimme.”

Wilson hands him the screwdriver and House examines the screws that he’s attempted to use to connect the base of the shelves to the back of it. He undoes some of Wilson’s work whilst he watches, occasionally passing tools when House asks for them like he’s in surgery. It goes like that for half an hour before Wilson gives up and goes to fix up a snack. House works in the obsessive way that he does. Wilson offers his hands to help when needed, holding pieces in place for House to fix. Both of them sat on the floor with _Dial M For Murder_ in the background. 

“Woah, wait,” Wilson says after a while. “That’s the wrong piece. That’s not the bottom shelf, it’s the top one.”

House continues to screw in the bolt, frowning and biting his lip as he works. “It doesn’t matter which shelf goes where.”

“But… it says in the instructions—"

“It’s fine. I’m right. It’s working.”

“I’m not saying you’re not infinitely better at furniture building than me, O Wise One, I’m just saying the instructions—"

“It _fits_.”

“You’re guessing. You’re assuming you’re right. What, did you wake up one day with a flatpack bookshelf instructions-booklet imprinted in your mind? Did God _bestow_ you this knowledge during one of your many, near-death experiences?”

House doesn’t laugh. Not because it isn’t hilarious, because it is – Wilson often is. Rather, because he isn’t losing this playfight. “I wish we’d never gone on that stupid team-bonding trip.” 

Wilson snorts. They both make this remark constantly. It’s a joke that they both enjoy throwing at each other in moments like this. “Screw raft-building and paintball. We could have just built flatpack bookshelves for the whole weekend and it would have worked just as well.”

“You’re right, I’ve never felt closer to you.”

Wilson laughs again – less mocking, more delighted. He doesn’t call House up on the wrong-shelf issue again, which is good, because he’s sure he’s right. After another half an hour, the shelves are finished, and they push it up against the nearest wall. 

Leaning against the back of the sofa, they examine their work. 

“It’s nice,” Wilson says with some relief. 

“Not worth the effort.”

“It was fun.”

House looks at him. “Sadist.”

There’s an ominous creak. House and Wilson step aside quickly, just in time to watch the shelves collapse in a pile like a stack of cards. 

House stares at the pieces of pine on the floor, in a state of complete shock. “But I was right,” he complains. Marching over to the instructions, he picks them up and flicks through the pages furiously. “I was right, they shouldn’t have fallen down.”

“And yet…” Wilson is smiling at the remains of their bookshelf in the same way a father might watch their child take their first steps. 

“What did you do?”

Wilson scoffs. “I didn’t do anything! You just screwed up! I _told_ you you got the shelves the wrong way around. Or maybe you used the wrong screws like I did.”

__House blinks. No, impossible._ _

__Wilson shrugs. “Let’s get someone in to build it.”_ _

__“No. I can build a flatpack bookshelf.”_ _

__Wilson throws his arms in the air, a smug smile on his face like he knows he’s won. Sauntering into the kitchen to grab a beer he calls, “I’m not going to deprive you of the opportunity to obsess over it. I will ask that you build it before we go to bed. I refuse to go to bed knowing that you’re just going to go fiddle around with it at two in the morning and wake me up with electric screwdrivers.”_ _

__He has a point there. “Deal. Bet you a hundred dollars that I can rebuild it in under an hour.”_ _

__“You’re on.”_ _

__This time, Wilson doesn’t offer to help. He just leaves House to it. Wilson has won in more ways than one, he realises, as he labours over a flatpack bookshelf on his day off without any help whatsoever, his partner serenely watching _Dial M For Murder_ reruns on the sofa he chose. _ _

__

__***_ _

__

__House still isn’t so used to playing the piano with Wilson listening. The show-off in him has no qualms with him hearing – the bastard in him wants to snarl at anyone seeing something so private as his thoughtless riffing on the keyboard. It doesn’t take long for it become second nature; playing and talking with Wilson at the same time, hands moving with a life of their own until the music turns into a song about him, a song House never meant to write._ _

__His fingers run over the keys and he occasionally peers over at Wilson, working at the kitchen table. Books open across it, folders scattered, test results put into piles with no discernible organisation. House watches him frown at his work, eyes scanning what he’s reading, watches him in the way he would watch him in the cafeteria or through the blinds in his office. Hoping that Wilson won’t notice, yet desperate for him to notice._ _

__

__***_ _

__

__They’re both elbow deep in marinara sauce when the doorbell rings._ _

__“You go,” House says, dicing tomatoes._ _

__Wilson rinses his hands, goes to answer the door. Over the sound of the CD they’re playing, he can make out Foreman’s voice, and Thirteen’s. Wilson letting them inside._ _

__“What are you doing here,” House demands without turning around. He continues to dice the last tomato perfectly – each piece one centimetre by one centimetre. (Neither of them predicted House would become such a good chef when Wilson brought him along to his cooking classes.)_ _

__“We need your opinion or the patient could die in the next hour,” Foreman says._ _

__“I didn’t answer the phone. That means leave me alone.”_ _

__“You didn’t hear the part where I said the patient could die within the hour?”_ _

__“What was the point in you working for me all these years if you couldn’t make decisions by yourselves.”_ _

__“House,” Wilson warns. “Come on.”_ _

__House finishes chopping the tomato. He turns and looks at Wilson, who’s leaning against the kitchen table. He doesn’t look too upset that they’ve interrupted their anniversary dinner, at least. If Wilson isn’t upset, then he probably shouldn’t be, either. Besides, they’ve both been pretending all day that they’ve both forgotten it’s their anniversary. It shouldn’t be a big deal, except that it is, for whatever reason._ _

__A sigh through his nose. House holds up his tomato-juice hands like he’s in surgery, views Foreman and Thirteen. “Come one. Tell me. What’s the problem.”_ _

__Thirteen purses her lips and takes out a scan from the folder under her arm. “We think it could be lymphoma. But—”_ _

__“Hold it up to the light.”_ _

__She does. House narrows his eyes a little as he looks at the scan, tomato hands raised in front of him. “Pituitary.”_ _

__“I think there’s something in the frontal lobe, Kutner agrees,” Foreman says._ _

__“It’s a smudge from the scan, it’s nothing,” Thirteen says._ _

__“And what does Taub think?” House poses._ _

__“He doesn’t think the lymphoma is lymphoma.”_ _

__House tilts his head and steps back, trying to get a better view. “It’s smaller than typical cases, but it’s not unlikely. If your two choices are treat her for lymphoma within the hour or get a biopsy…”_ _

__He doesn’t answer immediately, instead, he thinks. Tomato juice running down his arm._ _

__“Wilson, get over here.”_ _

__As if he’s been waiting for the chance to chip in, he sidles up to House and leans in close. “Could be lymphoma. Removing it without knowing for sure could be risky.”_ _

__“What about the smudge?” Foreman says._ _

__House nods. “Do the biopsy. We’ll be cracking into her head if it’s lymphoma anyway.”_ _

__Thirteen puts the scan away. “What do you think it could be if it's something else?”_ _

__“Erdheim–Chester disease,” he replies simply, returning to the pan and stirring the onions and tomatoes around._ _

__“Erdheim–Chester… but there’ve only been—”_ _

__“House has worked on two Erdheim–Chester cases," Foreman interrupts Thirteen. "Whatever statistic you’re about to pull, won’t help your argument.”_ _

__House hums along to the jazz music, stoically ignoring both of his employees. They get the picture, and Wilson shows them out. The door clicks shut._ _

__“So,” Wilson says, coming to join House’s side. Cooking together like this has become a bit of a habit, and it feels totally normal to have his best friend by his side chopping fresh oregano whilst he taste tests a pasta sauce they’ve made together. “I see you and your team are bonding better than ever.”_ _

__“They shouldn’t be barging in when I’m at home,” House retorts._ _

__He aims the wooden spoon at Wilson's mouth, who tastes the sauce. He nods appreciatively._ _

__“I’m only half kidding,” Wilson says. “You told them what to do without snapping or threatening them with one of the multiple sharp knives we have on the kitchen counter.”_ _

__House narrows his eyes. Points at him with the spoon. “Are you trying to suggest that I’m getting _nicer_?”_ _

__“Oh, no. I would never,” Wilson scoffs._ _

__He tries to elbow him, but it turns into something affectionate instead. “We should never have gone on that team-bonding trip,” House mutters._ _

__Wilson responds with a kiss on the cheek._ _

**Author's Note:**

> come find me at justkeeptrekkin on tumblr!


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